


Falling Soldiers

by esotericvanity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguing, BAMF John, BAMF Mrs. Hudson, BAMF Sherlock, Caretaker Sherlock, Case Fic, Detective Sherlock, F/M, Gang Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injured John, M/M, Manipulative John, Moriarty Is A Dick, Moriarty can dance, Moriarty is Not A Dick, Protective John, Protective Sherlock, Selective User Sherlock, Serendipity - Freeform, Two Dudes Protecting Each Other Fuck Your Assumptions, drug dealer john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-01 21:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8639605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esotericvanity/pseuds/esotericvanity
Summary: “I was a doctor.”“And a soldier. You never leave your home without a gun in you back-pocket for god’s sake.”Scowling and damning Sherlock’s flawless but maddening deduction skills would get him nowhere. This he knew all too well. But he’d already made up his mind. He was right after all.“So you want me to accompany you so I can guess the trajectory of the bullet by looking through a hole in our poor mayor’s head?”Now smiling and looking pleased, Sherlock made to don the coat hanging by the door. “Precisely. Clever one aren’t you? Only took you fourteen minutes.”





	1. Panic attacks and Afghanistan's Barracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The knocking started again, shaking John from his stupor.
> 
> "John let me in, your bandages needed to be changed before you so rudely threatened me with that pencil." John thought he could hear a hint of worry in the voice. 
> 
> John swallowed and chuckled a bit, a strange little sound, and slid to the floor. The knocking continued.
> 
> "John. John, I need you to breath." Sherlock spoke in a strict tone. Wait, he was breathing wasn't he?  
> "John! That's an order!" A bang on the door accompanied the words.  John blinked and nodded.

 Before his hand could come in contact with the soiled bandage, a solid, thin object pressed against his throat, effectively pausing him. Not intimidated in the slightest, he turned to look down at his no-longer-unconscious companion. "A pencil. Are you kidding?" The latter only added pressure, Sherlock rolled his eyes and removed his hovering hands from the man who was beginning to share likenesses with a cornered lion. The man, seemingly realizing he was threatening someone with a writing utensil, lowered his hand slowly.

  
John shook his head, drowsy from his three-day slumber, and glared. "Who the bloody hell are you?" He demanded, tone lacking it's likely, usual strident. Not batting an eye he plucked the shabby lotto pencil from the insolent man’s hand. "Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. It's a pleasure." Rising from the creaky wooden stool he’d conveniently placed beside the cot, he moved the old corn can stuffed to its circlet with a colorful throng of pencils, to a safe distance.

He pursed his lips and briefly reconsidered his decision to shelter the criminal, feeling John’s stare burning two fine holes into his cotton suit the entirety of the motion. He turned back in time to see John snap his head forward and make an effort to raise himself.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, your ribs are rather...bruised." He died off as John reluctantly reclined with a muffled scream.  
As the pain had become sufferable, he turned to Sherlock, glare no longer marred his worn face. "Where am I?" John observed him as he crossed the room.

With a lamp on his far right being the only source of light, it was still fairly easy to make out his surroundings. A bedroom, the area itself was extremely tidy and seemingly unused, a mug of water and orange prescription bottle were seated honestly beside him.

  
Sherlock sat on the corner of the bed; rumpling the old, patched quilt beneath him, and linked thin, pale fingers over a crossed knee, a decent space separating them.

  
"Bakers street, apartment 221B."

  
John frowned at the vague answer and glared into those...familiar eyes...and was suddenly overcome with a strong urge. A need. An undeniable sine qua non. A pulsing desire.

  
"Do you-do you have a bathroom?” 

  
"Don't be daft of course, I do." Sherlock sniffed and looked away, seeming to enjoy the conversation way too much. John had only just met the man, but by god, if he didn’t want to ring his skinny neck.

  
"Perhaps you could tell me where?” John elaborated in minor hysteria.

  
"Last door at the end of the hall. And do mind your injuries." He was needlessly dismissed with a flick of a wrist.

  
John had never run so fast, and there’s a statement. Sliding to a stop at the end of the ridiculously short hall, a ridiculously short-lived sprint too, he entered the room and was met with the angelic sight of a pearly bowl.

He clumsily twisted the latch, hearing the cylindrical lockset click into place. Regardless of his bladders imminence, he’d always found himself locking it: a stressful but a later reassuring force of habit.

  
Upon finishing, and nearly weeping, he subsequently found himself pacing the small room in nerve.  
  What the bloody hell happened and how had he gotten here!  "Shit!”  Mike had been there! Was he all right? Mike had accompanied John in the peddling, but had he made it out?  He shuddered at the thought.  Any further recollection was blurred by the macabre likelihoods, much to his frustration. The desperate mind-racking and heightened blood pressure would do no good he knew, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Then, abrupt, needle-like pain flared through his temple. John moved to raise his hand to it in alarm. If only the room hadn’t begun to share  likeness to a window pane during hurricane Katrina. John struggled to steady himself and blindly grasped at the bathroom counter, the effort later proving futile. John fell to his raw knees, the impact of the hard tile making him grunt. Now panting, he was overcome with a sudden wave of nausea. Promptly, emptying his stomachs nonexistent components into the toilet so opportunely placed before him.

  
  John blinked away the tears stinging his irate eyes and swallowed in an attempt to rid of the foul taste. Though it proved mostly pointless, he took comfort in the room ceasing its dizzying dance. The pain in his head had calmed to a dull ache now. He could numb it. Exhaustion weighed on his self, leaving him feeling as though his knees were glued to the floor. Wouldn't be the first time. But being him, he used it to his advantage. John forcefully rose, beaten body and psyche wanting nothing more than to curl onto the cool, solid flooring.

But, as usual, impelled them both. John rinsed the acidic tang from his mouth, being mindful of his pavement-induced lacerated palms. Once finished he glanced up, and only then took notice of his beaten reflection. He looked every bit as tired and defeated as he felt. Bruises and abrasions littered his person. Jesus, what had they done to him? John grimaced in discomfort when he probed at the torn flesh of his left cheekbone. And then, for reasons he currently couldn’t say coherently, he proceeded to further inspect the damage done.

  
John peeled off the outer layer;]. noting the concerning amount of blood stains crusting them. Nauseating anxiety returned, and he felt his lungs freeze.  
_The blood’s old, that means any serious wounds must have been stitched...'else I would have bled to death_. The thought was aimed to reassure, really.  
 He quickly discarded the second layer of bandage onto the counter in front of him, fully expecting to see...a scratch, bruising,...punctures.  He was met with the sight of another thin layer. He rose a brow even as his lips twitched and squeezed the bandage between shaking fingers. _This seems a bit excessive._ John thought, a little bemused and inappropriately relieved. 

A loud knock startled him. "John, are you alright?" John blinked.

Then looked around, finally taking note of his short breath, the bloody bandages tossed haphazardly over the bathroom counter, his reflection....

He paused. "I'm not so sure."

The knocking started again, shaking John from his stupor.

 

"John let me in, your bandages needed to be changed before you so rudely threatened me with that pencil." John thought he could hear a hint of worry in the voice. 

 

John swallowed and chuckled a bit, a strange little sound, and slid to the floor. The knocking continued.

 

"John. John, I need you to breath." Sherlock spoke in a strict tone. Wait, he was breathing wasn't he?  
 

"John! That's an order!" A bang on the door accompanied the words.  John blinked and nodded. Everything immediately coming into pinpoint focus. His breathing had already steadied before he assured his commander--caretaker. 

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine."

  
The door swung open. For a moment he feared he was going to be crushed by it, seeing as he was seated directly behind it, and braced himself. After a few moments, he noticed the door had come to a solid stop just two inches from his toes. He frowned and looked up. "Are you alright, John?" The figure asked and placed a key onto the ceramic. John felt his stomach clench in embarrassment.  "Yes, thank you." To which Sherlock nodded and all but dove through the cabinet, fishing out an extensive series of medical supplies and setting them on the counter. "I've managed to stitch the few deeper wounds on your torso and left arm you received from landing on the stray rock or debris. Your abrasions have mostly healed over the past 3 days with some salve."

  
John couldn't hold back his sigh of relief at that. He hadn't been stabbed. Although he was still awfully sore. "...Wait, did you say three days?"


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock glanced at John. "Yes, didn't you hear me?" he spoke blandly, hands continuing their search for wrapping. "Oh, and I'm afraid I can't allow you to contact any of your lackeys. Seeing as there's no guarantee for my survival and considering your line of work." Sherlock inhaled sharply through his teeth, inspecting two types of bandage. "Wouldn't want one of your friends becoming too trigger-happy." John nearly gawked for a moment.

"What do you mean by 'line of work'?" He questioned, crossing his arms and cocking his head a bit. Only refraining from leaning against the wall after his shoulder chafed it. Everything was so tender now and he wasn't exactly fond of the idea of passing out on the floor...again.

Sherlock peered at him over his shoulder and turned towards him. John twitched in irritation at the height difference. "How else could I have possibly discerned the scene I witnessed?"

"How much did you see?" John asked as he fixed his mildly blurry gaze on Sherlock's pale one.

"A paper bag, thugs, violence, a van." Sherlock listed off dully as he looked away and stared at a spot on the wall. "How quaint." He gestured for John to take a seat.

"What are you doing?" John asked, looking at his gesturing hand.

"Asking you to sit down, it's a commonly used hand gesture, I'm surprised you don't recognize it." Sherlock replied, doing it again and looking reasonably miffed now. "I'd like to resume my actions prior to you running to the bathroom and nearly hyperventilating once you caught sight of your wounds." He supplied rudely, but it wasn't mocking.

John was too sore and disoriented to care, so he complied. "I can do this myself, you know." Sherlock watched as John took a seat on the low bathroom counter. Thank god it was low. "I'm sure you can, just not right now. Look away." Sherlock proceeded quickly yet with finesse. While John hardly managed to keep himself upright, he felt a warm hand grip his hip or thigh to keep him steady when he truly feared he would fall. 

In an effort to distract himself from the shredded and bloody mess that was his lower body-and out of curiosity, he asked. "Why did you help me?" Sherlock didn't pause in his ministrations. "Because you needed help." John gasped softly as the dressing was wrapped tightly on a sore spot.

 "Well, yes. But you don't seem like the type to offer hospitality so casually." 

When Sherlock glanced up at him he quickly added. "No offense."

Sherlock strapped the rest of the bandage in place and rose after loosening them diminutively but effectively. Brushing his hair out of his eyes he met Johns gaze. "None taken.  The scene was... a tad too macabre for my taste." He answered and began clearing the stained remnants off the counter.  Discarding the soiled cotton into a small cylinder trash can John briefly noticed when he waited for his heaves to subside earlier.

"Too?" John prompted.

A hum in agreement. "Yes, 'too'. So I decided to intervene." Sherlock stole a glance at his wrist-watch. "We can continue this discussion in the morning, bed rest is vital." He grasped Johns upper arm and guided him off the counter. "I don't have a concussion?"

"No, you would have been dead by now. I was actually expecting it." Sherlock provided helpfully. Grunting when John lost his footing, sending them both into a wall, and causing Sherlock to take the entirety of the impact. "How did you even manage to make it to the bathroom?" Sherlock muttered, carefully pushing himself off the wall with a hand. The other hand busy keeping John from falling face first onto to the wooden flooring. John asked if he was alright, apparently not liking the sound he'd made. "It's fine just focus on the hallway ahead. Yes. Look at how it's not collapsing in on itself. Follow its example."

He ended up half dragging John and half contemplating the consequences of carrying him down the hall. Sherlock didn't really fancy the idea of a broken back at the moment. So, upon reaching the bedroom door Sherlock realized he couldn't use his hands. Keeping his grip firm on John's bicep, he reared his dress-shoed heel back and kicked the door open. John winced at the noise and peered up at him through squinted eyes. The sound clearly paining him. "Did you just break your door?"

"Fear not." Sherlock sighed, awkwardly gripping John around his waist, and one hand under his arm. John squirmed at the contact. Physical contact wasn't really Sherlock's forte, much less...whatever this was. "I have a very forgiving landlady."

John reached forward to splay a palm onto the mattress before Sherlock decided to drop him. Practically passing out once his legs made onto the bed. He didn't notice the figure above still remained until he felt bedding slide over his person. "Thanks, mate."

He felt the hand above his right shoulder halt raising the blanket. Then an admittedly strange, quick tap. Affection? "You're welcome, John."

Allowing soothing tendrils of sleep to rest his mind, John slumped further into the covers. Feeling far more comfortable than he had in a while.

 


	3. Skin in my teeth.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3 days ago.
> 
> The pain was unbearable. He'd never felt any this intense, not with dad, not in grade school, not even Afghanistan. His brain felt like it was going to burst out of his skull.
> 
> And for a fleeting moment, he considered ripping his eyeballs out of their sockets in attempt to give his rapidly pressurizing skull relief. He couldn't breathe. Oh god he couldn't fucking breathe. He needed to breathe.

 

 

 

John shivered as a particularly chilly breeze rushed by, tousling his hair and clothes. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, hoping to salvage some blood flow before his fingers went numb. He’d just arrived and he felt as though the whipping winds were creating small creatures of ice to scamper beneath his jumper. Slithering and crawling leeches draining any and all warmth they were. Clenching his gloveless hands, John tried to recall the low for today's weather forecast he’d half-way listened to on the telly this morning. Damned distracting hand-gun.

  
“Would you ask them to hurry the hell up?” Mike groaned, long cold and tired from their 4-minute wait. "We've been standing here for hours!"

  
“Be quiet! You’ll attract attention!” Hissed John, only performing a quick scan of the area after glaring at Mike in warning. They were alone as far as he could tell. Decaying brick wall, rough pavement, overflowing garbage cans and the stars acting as their only company for tonight’s peddling. “They should be here any minute now. Quit your whining.”

 

Mike scrunched his nose at ‘whining’, making his glasses slide down the narrow but short slope of his nose. A huff. “I do not whine-“

  
A text buzzed throughout the alley, both of them jumping at the shrill beep the device emitted, John had set it to its highest volume in fear of the call falling deaf on eager ears. John fished out the ancient flip phone from his pocket. It had been a gift for his birthday, his older sister, the only person John could keep in contact with these days, had given him a hand-me-down from her failed marriage when he’d returned from Afghanistan four months ago.

If she’d known he was using it to contact drug-dealers in London, downtown of all places, there’s not a doubt in John’s mind that she would disapprove, hypocritical as she may be. John shook it at Mike in a reprimanding manner, lip quirked teasingly, before opening it.

 

Received: You there?  
Sent: Yes.

 

It was informal and vague, just how John liked it. Try tracking that, you Scottland Yard sods. He wiped a snowflake off his screen and sighed, watching the graceful swirl of white dissipate.

"They'll be here. Why don't you take a seat?" John suggested distractedly.

He was met with a snort and glanced back to see Mike lean against the wall and cross his arms over his pudgy middle. "Because my arse'll be frozen to the bloody ground, that's why."

  
John hummed in amusement and resumed his watch on the street ahead. Mary had always called him a patient man. But it was at times like these that he couldn’t possibly bear a mere ounce of patience, much less being calm. It was at times like these he questioned how he’d gotten here in the first place, what he could have done differently to prevent himself from becoming the guy parents had warned their children about. About becoming.

 

Headlights glared at them from down the alleyway and turned off. Then repeated the action a few more times. He met the light unblinkingly, staring at the two yellow circles until his eyes burned. They seemed as intimidating as they did inevitable. "That's our signal, let's move." John nodded towards the van and began walking, paper bag in hand.

 

Upon reaching a seemingly unused recycling bin and making to step over, John had noticed the lack of his companions footfalls. Oh, not again.

 

"Coming?" John coaxed at him, sporting an exaggerated glance of urgency in the direction of the van and a tight-lipped smile.

  
Nothing, Mike remained by the wall, scuffing his shoe through the film of light snowfall.

  
John blew a frustrated breath out of his nose. "Why don't you sit this one out?" John suggested, watching Mike switch his weight from one foot to the other, his pocketed hands twitched with impatience.

"You sure?" Mike asked looking unsure. He'd been wary after an incident with a nightly peddling a week ago, it was pretty brutal but he managed to make it out with no more serious than a bruise or two. Luckily, John had found them before things became anything too illegal and played the concerned citizen, threatening to call the police, and shooing the druggies off to their caves to recommence their druggie things.

 

Mike was a rather thick and stocky fellow. And he was strong, don't get him wrong, but his resolve was pretty weak.

 

John gave him a small convincing smile. "Yeah, I'll be fine." He spoke quickly, there were drugs to be dealt and he didn't want them getting antsy. He'd seen addicts, he knew how far they'd go for a hit and what happened when they didn't get what they wanted when they wanted it. The last thing he needed was Mike holding him up, lest he faces the wrath of their little habit. "See you in a few days, Mike."

Mike, looking as though he wanted to ask him something terribly important, opened his mouth to say something else, but John wasn’t in the mood to placate him any more than was socially acceptable, annoyed by the fact he’d have to do…this. Alone. And took off towards the van. Mike staying behind as usual.

   
The van was white with a logo for some type of plumbing company on the side, 'You clog it We snog it!'. John didn't look into how they obtained the van and kept walking forward. When he was within one yard of the van he could tell something was off, he could hear whispering and banging.  He debated just booking it right then and there.  Just as he took a step back the door slid open and he was met with the wide-eyed gaze of a malnourished, pale and tired looking man. He had stubble and acne on his jaw while his eyes were worryingly bloodshot. _This was a bad idea._ John kept his face carefully blank and waited.

  
The skeletal man crawled out of the car and damn near towered over him, unblinking stare effortlessly pinning John in place. John didn't know whether to be thankful for sending Mike back or to damn him to hell in every language he knew.

 

The man glanced at the bag he was holding, John looked down and noticed his white-knuckled grip on it, and loosened his hand.

 

"John, right?" His head snapped up upon hearing the croaky use of his name. John cleared his throat. "Yes, that would be-that would be me, yes." He stumbled verbally and set his stern but neutral gaze on it-him.

 

The man looked him up and down and grinned, causing John to clench his jaw  to steady himself. _Brennen in der Holle, Mike. Brennen._

  
"How much ya got?" The man asked, face went flat. But he could still see the anticipation in the twitching of his hands and nostrils.

 

"Three packets. Pay up." John answered calmly. The man snatched the bag and dug through it while John held himself back from doing something in response to the rash action. The man mumbled a series of "Good. Good. Good." while he sifted through the bag and finally held out a packet of white powder.

 

Looking at it with a mix of relief and excitement he began to open the packet until John cleared his throat again. "Pay up first. And you can't do this out here."

 

The man froze, sliding his unnervingly wide, bloodshot eyes in John's direction. And just... stared. John stared back unflinchingly, all too acquainted with such a stare. You cannot allow them to feel superior or in control, God knows the result is anything but pretty.

  
"Don't tell me what to do, fag." John felt surprise morph his features for a split second before he switched back to his stern mask.

 

"Fine, just give me my money and we can be on our merry way." He growled the last bit, only to regret it not a moment later. The bloke's eyes narrowed almost imperceptively and his mouth twisted into a snarl. "I don't like your attitude, faggot." _Fuck._

  
John smiled slightly and put on an expression of what he hoped was sheepish and apologetic; scrubbing the back of his head.

 

"Yeah, sorry, mate. Today's just been rough and all. You know what I mean." He glanced behind him and into the van and felt dread seep into his insides. He wasn't alone with the creep, he could've possibly taken the stick on himself if need be. Now all he could do was play nice and hope the junky still had an ounce of mercy in him, and not just an animalistic urge to fight and get an adrenaline rush. As he had bared witness to many a time.

  
"What's that supposed to mean?" He spoke slowly and took a step forward. John held his ground, eyes never leaving his. Suddenly a call came from the van. "C'mon, Jay! Let's go!" John's eyes shot towards the van again just in time to see a hooded figure before his head was thwacked to the side, disorienting him. Stumbling to the side he leaned against the wall and, still shocked from the blow, tried to make sense of the world. So he could run away. Once the world became slightly clearer he looked up to see the man-Jay staring down at him with a sly smirk.

 

John couldn't feel the side of his face.

  
He swallowed. The guy was surprisingly strong for his lithe structure, he noticed a few more guys coming towards them to see what was going on. But kept them in his peripherals, always keep your eye on the enemy. Always. And if they decided to join in...He couldn't win this, he had to run. "Jay! What are you doing, man?" One of the soberer looking guys (wish he could say the same for the rest of them) grasped at Jay's shoulder, he was pretty small, smaller than all of them. He was still a teenager as far as he could tell.

  
"Jay! ...what the hell, man?" He trailed off as he caught sight of John. "Showing this punk a lesson." Jay roughly shrugged out of his grip and glared at him. "Get back in the van and start the engine." The kid looked uncertainly at John and back at Jay and the other two guys. "Guys-guys come on we don't need to do this. Let's just go, we've got the-" One of the other men shouted without looking away from John. "Get back in the fucking van, Kyle!" His fists were clenched at his sides, eyes wide and manic. God, he seemed worse than the first one. "Or maybe you could take his place?" He suggested, sickly grin on his face daring him to.

  
Kyle shot a look of remorse to a desperate looking John and left without a backward glance.

  
John ran.

 

He ran until thighs burned and he felt like he were breathing in shards of glass. Paying no mind to the icy slush that soaked his sneakers and numbed his toes, he jumped over crates and left toppled garbage cans in his wake. This wasn't his first rodeo. He knew the drill. But he was steadily approaching forty now.

 

"Get back here you fucking fag!" The voice had gotten alarmingly closer since its last insult.

 

  
_I'm too old for this shit._ He thought, the monsters panting behind him echoed in his eardrums. It wouldn't have been so bad to hear if he'd been in a different situation. A situation involving more attractive, naked people and less manic druggies.

 

He felt the back of his jacket violently ripped back by the collar. He made to take his jacket off and continue running but was caught at the wrists by his jacket and yanked backward. He roughly pulled himself out of the sleeves and turned to face them. Quickly coping with the fact that he couldn't run, couldn't hide, couldn't scream for help, he took a deep breath and swung at the first guy behind him, the one with his jacket, and landed the hit.

  
He was quickly rewarded for his efforts with a swift foot to the stomach. John hunched forward and onto the ground, feeling the rough pavement slice the skin on his palms. Before he could recover or look up he was kicked in the side of the head- _Back of the skull, thickest part of the head. Concussion unlikely-_ causing him to crash to the ground. The side of his face coming in contact with something...sharp and...spikey?

 

Everything was a haze and he could hear faint snickering above him. Sluggishly lifting his hand to survey the damage done to his temple. John tenderly touched the cut, promptly feeling the entire side of his face erupt in a strange numb burning sensation. Reaching back he found that his hand was almost completely covered in blood. His heart stuttered. The air he was breathing suddenly becoming so so much colder.

  
Then the kicking started.

  
John struggled to cover his face with his arms: afraid of worsening his head injury. The only thing running through his mind was to protect his head. Anything else was a lost cause, he could only hope they didn't have a knife. So they continued kicking the helpless man until their taunting shouts and John grunts and cries of pain were the only thing echoing off the walls.

 

Kick after blow landed sharply on his torso, arms, and legs. He felt so vulnerable lying underneath these monsters, it was maddening. Never knowing when a blow was coming, there was no pattern, no order, just cold fear and apprehension pumping through his very fucking being. And he couldn't do anything about it.

  
Apparently, someone managed to find an opening in his makeshift head protection and landed a quick strike to the side of his face.

 

The pain was unbearable. He'd never felt anything this intense, not with dad, not in grade school, not even Afghanistan. His brain felt like it was going to burst out of his skull.

And for a fleeting moment, he considered ripping his eyeballs out of their sockets in attempt to give his rapidly pressurizing skull relief. He couldn't breathe. Oh god he couldn't _fucking breathe_. _He needed to breathe._

  
"Hey! Hey!" He heard them stop and freeze. "Get away from him, I'm calling the police!" A deep voice sounded through the alley, soothing Johns ears a bit. There were mutterings of "Shit!" and "Hurry, get the bag!" and finally the blissful sound of tires screeching the pavement, well, maybe not blissful but it was nice.

  
John allowed his arms to drop to his sides, gasping for air until his spine arched off the ground.  Trying in vain to ignore the pounding in his skull and burning of his lungs. Everything else had started to go numb, which he couldn't help but be thankful for. Despite everything, it was a beautiful night, he mused. The faint yellow lamplight illuminating the snowfall. Spectating as it landed softly on our corrupted world without a care. The night sky was dark and vast, it reminded him of an accident, he'd spilled a bottle of ink all over his mother's writing desk when she tried to teach him how to sign his name in quill pen.  Except this time there was an array of shimmering stars, all on breathtaking display. John should've poured glitter on that bitch.

 

Taking a deep breath, he licked his lips. He could taste his skin in his teeth. Funny. The light snowfall cooled his bruising and bloody face. A relief, soothing his raw, burning skin. John closed his eyes in thanks.

  
"Sir, are you alright? Sir!" A voice called to him in a strict voice, it was much closer now. "I need you to stay awake. Open your eyes!"

 

And open his eyes he did. He looked up and saw two clear blue eyes. They reminded him of ice. He shivered.

  
"Sir, you need medical attention. I need to take you to my flat." The figure informed him, gently leaning him against a nearby wall. John didn't answer, either because he was too far gone and couldn't form coherent sentences or he was too busy staring into those eyes that appeared to stand out against the shadows. Probably induced by his kicked-in cranium.

  
The eyes blinked and looked around before refocusing on Johns battered form once more. Calculating. Slowly he felt two gloved hands grip his waist gently, and he hissed. "My apologies, please bear with it." Then John felt himself in the air for a moment, then gripped under his knees and around his back. The world fucking _spun._

 

He groaned, feeling his head lol onto the soft fabric of a coat. When the unsettling sensation passed, he cocked his head back gently and tried to comprehend what was happening. "John, are you alright?" Too far gone to notice the odd use of his name from a complete stranger. He opened his eyes to look at his savior and paused.

  
"You have pretty eyes," John told him earnestly.

  
The stranger stuttered in stride but quickly continued walking again, hauling him up once more, appearing to struggle with his weight. They shook their head. "I'll take that as a 'no'." The stranger muttered. John just kept staring at him.

 

 

 

"What?" _At least he was still conscious_. John couldn't help but think. "You're really beautiful," John repeated, although his vision was still quite blurry, he could discern the figure in warm lighting that shone over a head of curly brown locks, giving it a halo-like effect as well as the two keen eyes observing him under curled bangs. They a raised brow and blinked in surprise. Finally turning their head forward with a chuckle. "Thank you, I know."

  
Thankfully no one was on the streets at this hour so there no people to bear witness to the strange scene, for which Sherlock was immensely grateful for. "Aren't you worried about the fact that a stranger is taking you to an unknown location, especially in your current condition?" He asked mostly to keep John alert and, but more importantly, conscious. Highly doubting he'd receive a coherent answer Sherlock briskly walked down another alleyway. A  lone figure sat at a bus station, looks like he'd have to enter his flat through the back way. What a pain.

  
"Worrying is like walking around with an umbrella and waiting for it to rain." Sherlock blinked down at John, not expecting the philosophical answer.

 

"Yes, but what if there's very clearly going to be a rain storm? Thunder, lightning, _drug addicts_?" He grumbled the last bit and looked ahead. John made to shrug but stopped short and winced.

  
"Are you thunder?"

  
Sherlock glanced down at him. "Cleary not,-"

  
"Are you lightning?"

  
A sigh of resignation. "No, you'd be dead-"

  
"Are you a drug addict?"

  
"Selective user, actually."

  
John's face went stony at that. "That's bullshit." 

 

"For most. Not me. I have something, you see? Something rarely found in society." He smirked and paused for effect. "Self-control." John's face went inappropriately impressed at that, due to his head trauma mostly, but Sherlock ignored that. He may have enjoyed the expression a tad too much. But who was there to stop him?

 

John's eyes began to drift closed. Oh, right. "John, I need you stay awake." Sherlock bounced the fully grown man in his arms for good measure. "You have a concussion, if you go to sleep you have an extremely low chance of survival." Sherlock tried coaxing him back into the land of the living with cold fact.

 

It didn't work.

 

What a surprise. Sherlock growled at the unresponsive form in his arms, a sick feeling beginning to grip his insides. "You're going to _die_ , John."

 

Then, for reasons unknown, John went completely lax at that. Another rough shake, a head flick, A knee to the butt. Still nothing. "Oh fucking hell." Sherlock cursed under his breath and hurried his pace. Mrs. Hudson better be awake.

 

 

 


	4. Gunshot's and Gumdrops.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tell me, John. Do you normally threaten people with guns when clad in neon red underwear? Seems bad for business." Sherlock looked down and back up pointedly with a small smirk. "Well, I suppose it depends on the type of business."
> 
> John bit back a growl and tried to repress the heat rising up his neck and cheeks. He forgot he was half naked and crawling through a strangers home in fear of being shot by someone who was only interested in spiting a wall. Typical. "I'm not a prostitute. Now explain."

John awoke with a start, shooting up and rolling out of bed in a whirl of sheets and panic. He landed on the hardwood floor with a grunt, still tangled in the white sheets. As he struggled to free himself another gun shot rang out, confirming his suspicions and adding to his growing anxiety. He kept himself low and behind the bed in fear of being shot. _Again._ His optimistic mind supplied helpfully.

After a few more deafening bangs echoed John realized he wasn't being shot at and cautiously rose to peek over the bed and around the room. He was alone, god his heart couldn't take this much stress. He approached the chipping door warily as memories started coming to. John gasped as a sharp pain shot through his torso when he reached down to use the bed frame as leverage. "Jesus Christ." He hissed through clenched teeth, reaching down to hold the bed frame with his other hand and wait for the pain to recede while he stared down.

He wasn't wearing any pants. John furrowed his brows. "Huh."

Another gunshot. His eyes widened and he quickly but carefully braced himself against the wall next to the door. John swallowed and waited for a few moments to pass before he opened the door swiftly to prevent it from creaking. Repeating the motion, he shut the door behind him briskly yet softly. He turned around and flicked his eyes wildly around the area and found himself in a hallway. Carefully treading down the hallway he avoided any creaking floor boards with ease, even though it stressed his wounds.

Upon reaching the living room he crouched down with his back to the wall and resisted the urge to grunt in pain. He half crawled half walked to the edge of the table and peered around it, the light outside reflecting off the wall and allowing John to remain in the shadows. The snow was creating small shadows across the furniture in the room. Then he caught sight of a pale hand dangling over the side of a chair, it had a gun. Suddenly the figure rose. "Bored!" Sherlock aimed the gun at the wall with a flourish and fired. John flinched back; shocked. _Did he just say he was bored?_

After a few tense minutes passed Sherlock turned towards the kitchen with a dramatic sigh and looked down at the area he was hidden behind. "You can come out now."

John remained crouched and uncertain. "I'm not going to kill you, I would have done so earlier." The baritone voice drawled.

After a few tense minutes he reluctantly rose from behind the counter. The man could easily just hold him at gun point and make him come out. And John supposed he had a point. "How did you know I was there?" He asked a little miffed at being found so quickly, he had been so careful, but mostly trying to take attention off the weapon. He felt a little more relaxed now that he could see his gun had been set on a cluttered coffee table, but not by much.

Sherlock regarded him lazily. "I heard you fall out of bed."

John momentarily crumpled his face in exasperation with himself for reckless. The inner soldier in him berating him for being so stupid and telling him he'd be dead if the guy wasn't so interested in that wall...or hadn't intervened and stopped those lackeys from stomping him into oblivion.

Ignoring his comment, he asked. "Nice gun, where did you get it?" He watched tensely as Sherlock sauntered over to it and turned it in his hands with skill, face sending a quick polite smile at John again.

"Yes, lovely model it is isn't it? Browning, what a beauty. But it isn't mine." John's face went flat as he glanced between Sherlock and the firearm. "Then how did you _obtain_ it?" He tried to clarify. He could have sworn he dropped back in the alley.

"I found it on the floor after I interrupted the brawl, you dropped it before you fled." Sherlock answered.

John inhaled with a tight smile, so much for plan not-as-bad-of-a-criminal-as-I-could-be. "And why are you _firing_ it?"

Sherlock cocked his head with raised brows. "Didn't you hear me? I said a was-" He brought his lanky arm up and spun towards the wall, firing the weapon once more. "Bored!"

John decided he'd had enough and made to snatch the gun from him, briskly crossing the few feet between them. Much to his confusion, Sherlock allowed him to take the gun easily. "Alright, hands up, you bloody psychopath!" John spoke sternly and aimed the gun at him.

In return he received an extremely condescending and somewhat pitying look, although Sherlock complied.  _Not an ideal look to be giving someone holding a gun to your head._ John though in ire as he tightened his hold on the gun.

"Tell me, John. Do you normally threaten people with guns when clad in neon red underwear? Seems bad for business." Sherlock looked down and back up pointedly with a small smirk. "Well, I suppose it depends on the type of business."

John bit back a growl and tried to repress the heat rising up his neck and cheeks. He forgot he was half naked and crawling through a strangers home in fear of being shot by someone who was only interested in spiting a wall. Typical. "I'm not a prostitute. Now explain."

Sherlock looked down and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously similar to "Superiority complex." and walked off to the kitchen. John blinked as his gun lowered in surprise, quickly recovering and aiming the gun at him again. "Hey! What do you think you're doing?!"

Sherlock looked away from the kettle he was filling in the sink, and lifted it. Allowing John to view it properly, although what he was doing was fairly obvious before, and said. "Guess."

John twitched while Sherlock set the kettle on the cluttered stove and walked over, having lowered the gun earlier.  "And do you normally walk away when you're being held at gun point?" John asked, leaning against the kitchen's walkway and throwing the question back at him.

Sherlock briefly looked at him before adding the tea to the pot. "Only when said gun lacks ammunition."

"How do you know you just used the last bullet?"

Setting two mugs of tea on the counter in front of John, he looked at the wall and let out a frustrated breath. "Is your head as hollow as that gun barrel?" He fixed his indifferent gaze back on John and gestured to the bullets in the wall sharply. "There's evidently six bullet holes in the wall and you couldn't have possibly slept through all of them. It's your gun, you should be able to tell."

John pursed his lips in distaste. "You can't expect someone to be that perceptive, regarding their reaction to hearing such a thing at such an un-godly hour." John looked at him with skepticism. "What? Did you expect me to solely recognize the guns type by the sound of its fire?" He asked sarcastically.

He was surprised to receive a disappointed twist of Sherlock's lips. "Possibly." John gawked. "You can't be serious, no one can do that."

Sherlock threw up his hands. "I can! I'm not surprised by your average intellect, I don't know why I suspected more." Sherlock threw a glare his way accompanied with a shake of his head. "After all, who in their right mind would meet up with a lot of druggies in alleyway _alone._ If anything you're below average. What was I thinking?"

John squeezed his Browning's handle, noticing the way Sherlock's eyes drifted to it at the motion. "Oh, shut your mug, you pompous prick. You don't know the whole story."

Sherlock twitched at that, and turned around, looking a lot less accommodating than before. "I'm quite sure that I do-"

 

"I wasn't alone at first." John clenched his fists. Sherlock continued staring at him for a moment. Taking in his tired form, his glare faded to indifference. Apparently piecing together his ludicrous loyalty to his team and self-sacrificial nature. As if someone like Sherlock would understand. John had only known the man for so long. But it didn't take a genius to know Sherlock had issues. People issues.

 Finally, Sherlock broke the silence. "Sentimentality is a disadvantage, a chemical defect found on the losing side, and it will kill you. You live a dangerous regimen, Watson. It's only a matter of time before it stabs you in the back...or shoots you in the shoulder."

 

 

John lunged for him.

 

 

**Five minutes later.**

 

 

 

John watched as the steam billowed out of his cup in a slow whirl, the cup warm between his raw palms. Sherlock sat across from him in his plush red chair, staring at him with narrowed eyes every now and again as he sipped at his tea, maneuvering the tissue on his bleeding nose to take a sip. It was practically a blizzard outside, John noted as he observed the white flurry rushing just outside the window. John cleared his throat. "So, care to explain?" Sherlock's narrowed gaze slid to him from over his tissue. "What is it you would like me to _explain_?" He asked with a nasal tone.

John sat forward on his elbows. "For starters, the location of my pants." And watched with wariness as Sherlock suddenly smiled and set his tea down with a sniff, his nose must have stopped bleeding. "Over there." Sherlock pointed, his beaming gaze never leaving John. John looked in the direction he was pointing at and froze. "Why are my pants on a cows skull?" He asked after a moment and glanced at Sherlock through furrowed brows, mouth set in a grim line. "You wanted to give him a hat, it was snowing after all." Sherlock simply answered, squinting his eyes with a twitching, closed smile.

John just looked back at the pants clad cow skull with a sigh. Then back at Sherlock and cleared his throat. "Can I?" Sherlock just inclined his chin forward and hummed in question. "May I receive my pants from your cow skull?" Sherlock nodded in assent. "Everything else is in the washer below my floor." Sherlock added after he finished.

"And why didn't you wash these as well?" John asked with raised eyebrows and waving his pants for emphasis. "When I suggested it you said the cow would catch a cold, I didn't want that." John exhaled in annoyance, desperately wracking his brain for memories of what happened after he was attacked and dragged into this flat half dead by Sherlock.

 

Then it hit him, he looked up. "How do you know my name? I never told you a smidge of information about my person."

Sherlock flopped back dramatically an turned his head to him with bored eyes. "You catch on quick do you?" He watched as John began to pull up his pants.

"Just answer the question!" He snapped and tried to ignore Sherlock's staring.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked at the ceiling. "Your wallet, duh." Sherlock flicked his nose at 'duh'. " You're also a veteran, army doctor, discharged due to injury to your left shoulder. You still suffer from PTSD, mild superiority complex your therapist had blown off as being calloused from the war, perhaps she was right. More tests are needed. Anyways, you were discharged 2 years ago and sported a psychosomatic limp for quite some time but you've managed to overcome it, mostly. No wife, no children, no family, just you and your blokes. Though I must admit I am curious about what induced such a drastic change in career." Sherlock turned to him. "What happened?" Sherlock looked at John in mock bewilderment while shaking his head.

There was a silence. "You got all of that from a wallet?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course not. Well, not _all_ of it. Your nonexistent ties to a nonexistent home, you being an army doctor and veteran was from your medal- which was roughly two to three years old, neatly folded and kept. Clearly the army medical regimental crest. That is what I deduced from your wallet. As for your PTSD, if you remember yesterday night it's unnecessary to elaborate." John gave a quick nod and pursed his lips at the memory. Sherlock glanced at him and continued. "Also, the therapist, who wouldn't have one after the horrors you had experienced. Once again, the superiority complex is still up for debate, you show symptoms of it. You repress your feelings in fear of seeming vulnerable, or you're motivated by the consequences of showing such weakness in your line of work." Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the fire place, his face turned so John couldn't discern his expression.

Having his entire life declared to him from his wallet wasn't something John thought he'd ever experience. But he was in awe. "That was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant." He said after a pause, eyes narrowed at the figure incredulously. He may have sounded a little too reverent, but Sherlock deserved to know. Telling from Sherlock's expression, he had been expecting something rather different. Which was strange.

 The figure stiffened abruptly, and sat up, gripping the arm rests. "You really think so? It doesn't strike you as... strange?" John just blinked at the weary creature, a small smile still remaining on his face.

"Well, I wouldn't say strange. I'd say unusual. And yes, it was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary..." He noticed hesitance on Sherlock's face, and stupidly wondered if he'd ever been told that. John cleared his throat and refined with a stumbling. "You know, how you can put all of those clues together so quickly I mean."

Sherlock looked at him for a little while, giving him a small but genuine smile. "Thank you, John." He turned back towards the fireplace and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "Any other questions?"

John looked at the way Sherlock's irises gleamed as the fire illuminated them from an angle. "Yes, actually." He made his voice go serious, he had to remember the situation he was in. He was hurt and he couldn't run away-a mere jacket wouldn't help in this flurry, and he had no idea where the tubes were. "Do you have any plans to prosecute me?" Sherlock must have noticed his tone because the serene expression was gone as quickly as it appeared. John almost regretted saying anything.

"No, I would have alerted the authorities immediately." He drawled in a 'did you switch your brains for magic beans' tone. John ignored it, he was getting good at that, Sherlock noted. "Then why haven't you?" John met his gaze.

"I'd be a hypocrite if I prosecuted someone for handling a few measly drugs." Sherlock stated indifferently.

John leaned into the chair and rested his arms on the rests. "You're a dealer." That elicited a chuckle from Sherlock.

"Oh, heavens no I'm a user."

He enjoyed the way shock spread across Johns features, although he couldn't say the same for how he quickly repressed it. "An addict." John spoke in a clipped tone.

Sherlock shook his head. "No," He enunciated the word slowly, as though admonishing a temperamental toddler . "A user. A _selective_ user. It helps me focus." His eyes flicked up to see John frown at him.

"I see. What is it you _selectively_ use then?" John drew out derisively.

Sherlock sat forward and stared back with a blasé expression. "That's none of your concern."

John didn't push it, lucky enough as it was that he could get out of this so easily. "Fair point." He held up his hands from the arm rests, keeping his elbows on them and blinked looking away in a sign of subconscious surrender. But it wasn't just subconscious for John anymore, he knew exactly what he was doing.

Seemingly satisfied with the drop of subject, Sherlock leaned forward to pour John and himself some more tea. "When do you plan to leave? I would suggest you stay here until the blizzard lets up." He prompted with a brief look in Johns direction as he stirred in a sugar cube.

John looked through the window with a resigned sigh, it didn't appear to be letting up anytime soon. "Yes, that would be more wise wouldn't it?" He muttered rhetorically.

Just as John was about to thank him a series of loud knocks assaulted the front door.

 


	5. To Be, Or not to Be (A Dick).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile at Scottland Yard.
> 
> Watching in growing surprise as the previously docile woman's face formed an animalistic sneer.
> 
> "Don't forget, Karim. My shoe is worth more than your very fucking existence. I can decide if you eat out of garbage cans for the rest of your life with a snap of fingers. I can-and will- ruin you. Nobody wants assisted murder on their record, now do they?" 
> 
> Almost immediately, her face took on a sweet appearance, as if she hadn't just compared a mans life to her red heel. 
> 
> Looking down at them, he had to admit. They were pretty great shoes. "Let him through. Now!"
> 
> The man moved so quickly he fell into a plastic tree.
> 
> "Oh, thank you so much!" He landed a quick kiss on each of her cheeks and ran into the elevator. Still a faking, blubbering mess.
> 
> The maître d watched him go. Holding her cheeks with a soft blush and smile.

Lestrade placed a hand on the back of the black swivel chair and leaned over the kids shoulder to further gesture to the application on the computer screen. They were seated in his office and he had to show him how to complete an application for networking in the U.S federal government. _God, I can't believe I have to do this. How did he even get here?_

"Alright, so the job ad. It will say "Series & Grade" and that usually looks something like this." He pointed to a code on the screen with a bored expression. Pretty much running on auto-pilot. "GS-1320-13/13. So, the four digit number is the job code- A friend of mine was hired at 0343 but you can largely ignore that." He lightly boasted. " The second set of numbers-" The kid cleared his throat loudly, making Lestrade turn to peer down at him.

"Um, Sir?" The kid- Gavin was it?-turned to look up at him over the rims of his square spectacles nervously. He was a pale willowy guy, dressed in a cleanly cut suit, expensive looking shoes, wearing some noxious celebrity colon he recognized, and slicked back hair. 

Greg Lestrade raised a brow and glanced at the screen and back to Gavin again. "Yes?" He asked a tad impatient, didn't this kid understand technical terming? Gavin frowned up at him. "I'm- I was here to pick up my sister, I already work for the government." Lestrade twitched, no wonder the kid looked so confused. " I evaluate the chemistry and chemical studies of tobacco product and other FDA related products." Lestrade heaved a breath and backed away from the chair. "Then why didn't you _say_ anything?"

Gavin him an exasperated look though it looked like it was mostly aimed at himself. "You kept cutting me off. I tried to leave a few times but you kept on muttering about how you wanted to get this over with and calling me stupid kid." He pushed his glasses up his nose and tilted his chin up to Greg's a bit.

Glaring at Lestrade as he rose from the desk. "I'm _twenty eight_. Now can you tell me where she is?" Lestrade frowned, abashed. "Oh, sorry," He chuckled nervously as Gavin began to drum his fingers on his crossed arms impatiently. "What's your sisters name... again?" He finished lamely when the twenty eight year old sighed.

"Carol, Carol Abbott. Would you mind directing me to her office or work area? It's an emergency."

He looked up at that. "Yes, please follow me." Lestrade strode into the hallway and made a turn. Checking to see if Gavin was still following him. Carol had been recently hired as a U.S Secret Service Agent. Her ranking was impressive given her docile appearance, but Lestrade couldn't question it. Now that he thought about it, the resemblance between the two was gone on him, they looked nothing alike. _Probably adopted._

"If you don't mind me asking, what is the emergency?" He asked, glancing at Gavin as when he fell into step with him.

"Nothing dramatic, just a mix up in files a few days ago at a family meeting." Gavin humphed sharply in amusement and closed his eyes, appearing to reminisce.

Lestrade jumped at the noise, how could something so small make such a loud noise?

"Thought I'd just stop by, pay her a visit, maybe take her out for lunch and hand her her file back over coffee, discuss our plans for the future." He smirked a little too devilishly at Lestrade for his taste. Then shrugged, looking forward again. "Semantics."

It seemed oddly intimate for brother and sister, Lestrade thought with the beginnings of a grimace. Making another right, he knocked on her office door. Gavin just walked forward and grasped the doorknob, aiming a large grin at him. The awkward kid with anxiety from earlier completely disappearing. "I've got it from here, thanks."

The grin and wide dark eyes made him uneasy, but he knew Carol could handle herself, she couldn't have earned her rank without the possession of certain abilities. Gavin winked at him once more and let himself into the office. He waited until he heard talking on the other side and listened as the two traded courtesies.

 Convinced that no one was going to die, Lestrade made his way back to his office with a shake of his head, barking the occasional order to one agent or another. Today the mayor of London, Charles Abramson, was going to be transported to the glided state coach by car any moment now. The U.S Secret Service agents, the officer transporting him, and most of London was already prepping for the parade.

They'd been forced into laying low recently. All because some bloody nutcase had been killing drug lords and government officials left and right. Whoever they were, they weren't discreet at all. If it weren't for the taunting notes left behind after every murder Lestrade was sure, though he loathe admit it, that they wouldn't have been capable of linking the murders themselves. Not even now. It had been months, and since then, the lives of seven drug lords and seven government officials had lost. They suspected it was some twisted way of expressing his opinions of impartiality. For what purpose, they weren't sure. J.M being their only suspect.

The parade was risky and he knew it, but recent events weren't lessening their spirits for tradition. He knew he'd just get his arse chewed if he even suggested it, because he had tried, but the bloody fools didn't listen.

Lestrade shook the thought from his mind and sat back in his plush swivel chair with a sigh. He had a few calls to make.

**Meanwhile.**

A hooded figure entered through the lobby holding a large black case, about two feet in diameter. They were dressed in a black zip up hoodie and dark wash jeans. Observing the lobby with hooded eyes, steps long and determined. At first glance the boyish figure would appear to be an outcast, possibly a teenager going through some unfortunate phase. But upon closer inspection, you would take notice of the hidden feminine contours and aged face. Today, the hotel lobby was bustling with people, all filling the air with excited chatter aboutthe ceremony taking place in an hour or so. Perfect.

Today was Lord Mayor's Show. If you knew what that was then you'd know that on this day the mayor of London would lead a parade of over 6,000 people through the streets. Military marching bands, Chinese acrobats- the whole shebang.

The figure silently passed through the preoccupied security with ease, holding the suitcase with a tight grip. Entering the lift and pressing a button, she checked her watch and pulled out a sleek black phone and dialed a number with her left thumb- not once making a misspell and typing with impressive speed. The phone answered on the first ring.

"Hello~" A voice on the other line cooed. "I've successfully made it to the lift without so much as a second glance. So far we're in the clear. I'll notify you once I've reached the 12th floor." She informed them curtly."

The latter answered with a casual. "Awe, sweetheart. I miss you too, I'll meet you there alright? I've also got little Sarah with me. She can't wait to see you." She heard a little girl laugh on the other end of the line and felt tears burn her eyes.

Quickly wiping her eyes on her sleeve she gripped the phone harder and glanced venomously towards it. "We're thinking about going out for ice cream afterwards, is that alright?" She remained obediently silent. "Great! We'll see you there!" The line went dead.

Opening up the suitcase she pulled out a plain white mask. Carefully flipping it over with lightly trembling hands. It read 'criminal' in black marker across the forehead. Exhaling shakily she bent over and pulled down her hood, keeping her face out of view of the surveillance camera in the top right corner of the elevator, and slipped the elastic of the mask over her head. Standing up she adjusted it and picked up the now closed suitcase again, and exited the elevator.

**In the lobby.**

Moriarty entered through the automatic sliding glass doors and took in the scene of chattering people and golden shimmering décor. All with an inhale and exhale of deep satisfaction. Tightening his hold on Sarah's shoulders he made his way to the front desk, bumping and squirming through the crowd and holding Sarah out in front of him so he wouldn't get punched in the nose. Only giving them quick bored apologies in compensation. Once he reached the front desk, he slid a card to the maître d.

"Hello, I believe we've already reserved a room, monsieur?" He asked in a French accent and grinned down at Sarah as he jiggled her shoulders a little, causing her to giggle.

The maître d glanced down at the little girl with a small smile on her red lips, then up at Moriarty. Scanning the card, she handed Moriarty the key with a wink. To which he mockingly grasped at his heart with an expression of astonishment and staggered back.

When they reach the elevator Moriarty receives a text.

Received: _Done._

"Was that mommy?" He grinned down at Sarah and stooped down to her level. "Yep!" He replied and clutching her shoulders.

"Hey, how old are you again?" He asked with an exaggerated curious frown.

Sarah smiled shyly. "Seven and a half." Moriarty's face went dumbfounded.

"Woah, really? That's pretty cool." He nodded his head and pursed his lips in thought, looking to the side in impressment. Then he snapped his head back to her. "Do you think you can go in the elevator and press the button that says number twelve? And when it opens you go to the door that says the number on your key?"

Sarah cocked her head confused. "Yeah." She said slowly and peeking up at Moriarty through inky black bangs

. "Great! You'll find mommy in the door with the number 276 on it." He pointed at the key for emphasis. He ushered her into the lift and pressed the 12th button. "Bye-bye, Sarah." He waved with a grin.

"Bye-bye, Uncle Mori!"

**Surveillance room.**

"Carrie, you might wanna take a look at this." Daryll looked at the screen warily. An eerie, masked figure dashed through the hallways. Carrie came over not a second later and leaned over the desk on her hands, causing the fabric of her blue dress shirt to rustle. And observed the computer with her mouth set in a grim line.

She opened her mouth and closed it again. "Does...does his mask say 'criminal'?"

Daryll blew out a frustrated breath. "Well duh." She fixed him with a glare with her dark brown eyes. "We need to call the police."

"Why don't you just check it out yourself, Miss Fearless?" Daryll raised an unimpressed brow.

Carrie scowled. "Why don't you, Mister my-balls-are-bigger-than-my-brain?"

"Alright! You know what-" A shrill alarm cut him off and they struggled to cover their ears from the awful sound. "Shit, something's happened!" Carrie screeched over the volume.

"Ya think!?" Daryll looked down at her and answered back equally, if not more, loud.

"Come on! We need to evacuate the premises!" She yelled back and proceeded to drag him out the door.

 "But what about the guy?" he asked quieter, now that they were out of the room. For some reason they made the alarm louder in the surveillance room. Fucking sadists.

Carrie turned around and said, "If he's smart he'll evacuate too. Now come on lets move!"

"But-" She whirled on him and pulled Daryll towards her, smacking a repulsively wet and messy kiss on his lips. She clearly wasn't as experienced as she put off to be.  Daryll froze and blinked.

Carrie pulled back with a glare and smeared hot pink lipstick. "There's no time, now come _on_!" She took off towards the more populated areas of the hotel, dragging a dazed and confused Daryll in her wake.

 

 

**Back to the lobby.**

 

Moriarty looked down at the activated fire alarm lever and smiled at the prompt chaos. The alarmed crowd already rushing towards the doors. _Time for some_ fun. He thought impishly.

Moriarty ran through the crowd, appearing to be desperately looking for something. Big fat messy tears dripping down his face. Then he looked startled, like he'd just remembered something very important, and turned to the elevator.

Which was being blocked by a giant sodding security guard. Splendid.

"Sir! You have to let me through, please!" He begged, his lip quivering violently.

The security guard looked down at him nervously. "I'm sorry, sir. But no one is allowed to use the lift right now." Moriarty began to look angry and panicked.

"You don't understand! My niece is still in there!" He sharply pointed out with both of his arms, his hands clenched into claws. His teeth were near gritting and tears were still running. _This bastard was **in his way.**_

A calm hand landed on his shoulder and he jumped a bit and peered over his shoulder.

The maître d from earlier was smiling at him comfortingly. _Huh_. 

She turned to the security guard patiently, and said. "It will only take him a moment to get his niece, their room is only on floor twelve. Let him through."

The security guard shook his head again. "I-I'm sorry, mam. I can't allow you to-" Moriarty turned back to the woman when he saw the security guards face go white. Watching in growing surprise as the woman's face formed an animalistic sneer.

"Don't forget, _Karim_. My shoe is worth more than your _very fucking existence_. I can decide if you eat out of garbage cans for the rest of your life with a snap of fingers. I can-and will- _ **ruin** _ you. Nobody wants assisted murder on their record, now do they?" Almost immediately, her face took on a sweet appearance, as if she hadn't just compared a mans life to her red heel. Looking down at them, he had to admit. They were pretty great shoes. "Let him through. _Now_!"

The man moved so quickly he fell into a plastic tree.

"Oh, thank you so much!" He landed a quick kiss on each of her cheeks and ran into the elevator. Still a faking, blubbering mess. The maître d watched him go. Holding her cheeks with a soft blush and smile.

 

**5th floor. 4th floor. 3rd floor...**

 

Carol stood in the second elevator as she held her daughter in her arms. After Carol had assembled the rifle, with gloves on, and left it in room 276 perched on the window she changed her clothes into a puffy coat and leggings she found in a Dora's backpack. It was in the weapons suitcase. Stuffing her clothes and the gloves into the backpack she grabbed her daughter and slid it over her shoulder. On the ride down in the elevator she clutched her daughter close and whimpered in relief.

"What's wrong mommy?" Sarah asked in confusion, brushing a stray hair away from Carol's rapidly wetting face. Carol shook her inclined head and let out a wet laugh. She turned to look at her safe, alive, happy, and unharmed daughter and attempted to smile comfortingly, but her lips started quivering. 

 "Nothing. Nothing's wrong. Mommy's just happy to see you." Carol's voice cracked out.

"I'm happy to see you too, mummy. Please stop crying?" She sniffled and burrowed herself into Sarah's chest and muffled her sobs as the elevator doors slid closed.

You know what they say. When one door closes, another one opens. Moriarty walked down the red carpeted hallway . Smiling when he caught sight of the open hotel door. Key still in the key-hole. That little girl was going places.

Moriarty twirled into the room with a hum, listening to the symmetrical beeping below him. "I am quite acquainted with ill intention, and I'm many a time the object of peoples extensive aggression." He sang as he closed his eyes with an openmouthed grimace, stepping forward gracefully. Suddenly popping his eyes open and crinkling them sadly, he gestured towards the right as if interrogating someone. "Though I cannot fathom why. Most times it makes me want to _cry._ " He accentuated the word with a tear-like gesture of running his finger down his left cheek and a pout. All while continuing his deadly trek.

Moriarty sighed and looked down with a shrug. "And other times...well."

Snapping up he excitedly paced left and right to the fire alarm in rhythm. "I _can-"_ he intoned for a moment with an eagle gesture before sliding to the side. "-see it in my dreams do you know what? Do you know what?" He spoke quickly. "Walking along all of your broken body parts." He imitated walking warily over them, holding an invisible skirt in the air as he stared downwards with a fearful expression.

"Breaking all your fingers underneath my leather shoes- they're Santoni too!" Moriarty crooned and shuffled his feet towards the mayors demise. "Watching as you scream and cry in pain-ugh-AHHHH-NO-STOP-though it will almost always be in vain." He created a series of suffering sounds during the middle of his verse. Leaning down to the rifles level. "Silly Lestrade, thinking you could stop me-more specifically my bullets velocity-but you failed soooo." He cocked the gun and aimed the scope.  Charles Abramson's pretty little head blissfully unaware of the red dot painting his fore head as he waved excitedly at his fans through the silk red curtain. He finished the verse with pursed lips and one widened eye. "Mister Charles Abe's has gotta go, gotta go." Oh, how he loved the deafening bang rifles made. A shame he'd had to use a suppressor.


	6. Christians and Severed Forefingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter may be offensive to those of religion. 
> 
> "Yeah," Sherlock' voice cracked on the syllable. "a small red man repeatedly pokes and prods me with his pitchfork, sassing me into oblivion and yelling obscenities spliced with my many inhibitions, all whilst I hang above a fiery pit. For all of eternity." His voice gradually became dull and wry. 
> 
> A sharp noise escaped Sarah, sounding suspiciously similar to humored hysteria. 
> 
> "Thinking 'why?' 'why didn't I heed that plastic woman's warning?'-"
> 
> Christie squawked, affronted, and covered her voluptuous chest with her hand. "Plastic?!" 
> 
> Sarah heaved a breath, head tilted to the side to conceal her face, her small hand attempting to conceal any sounds. While John went worryingly quiet in the background.

_Tragedy has struck Great Britain. Earlier today, people from around the world bared witness to our beloved mayor: Charles Abramson, being gruesomely killed by a gunshot to the head-"_

John watched in growing horror with every sentence the dejected looking woman uttered, she had been crying judging from her red rimmed eyes and smudged mascara, though she seemed to have made an attempt to fix it. Poor girl, it hadn't worked in the slightest.

Sherlock stared blankly. "Oh, it happened again." John didn't say anything and kept his eyes firmly glued to the television screen.

It wasn't until several more intense questioning and dull reiterations of "If you _do_ in fact- _don't look at me like that-_ decide to speak even one word of this encounter to the authorities- no- _I'm serious, Sherlock_ \- I can assure you that you cannot expect to live longer than week."'s.

To which Sherlock derisively questioned his partners timeframes and asking when their next reprisal was scheduled. That John, the idiot, finally relented. Now he was seated on the plush chair next to Sherlock's with his hands clutching the arm rests as he leant forward. An incredulous expression marred his bruised face.

_"Authorities are claiming the killing to be a terrorism-"_

Sherlock clicked his tongue. "Wrong!"

"Shh!"

" _Authorities are currently investigating the area -"_

Sherlock sighed and sank into his chair. "Racist prejudice."

-John huffed a strange, small, angry, and vaguely amused sound and raised an eyebrow. "And what do you propose happened?" He asked voice carrying an undertone of anticipation. He'd become rather fond of Sherlock's habit, but could you blame him? The man was a walking computer, instantly gathering information, developing likelihoods and reaching conclusions in a matter of moments. How he spoke so quickly yet with such eloquence.

...alright, perhaps John was a tad start-struck, after all Sherlock had solved three cases on the X files and claimed the correct fathers of two children on The Maury Show.

Sherlock appeared to be stuck in some stupor, his hands were held in a prayers position that resulted in John briefly assuming he was religious. Only to be proved extraterestrially wrong. The thought brought about a concoction of guilt and amusement as he recalled earlier happenings.

 

Earlier:

 

"What the hell are you doing?" Sherlock merely hummed and continued slicing thin cuts into a severed finger with a piece of notebook paper, posture slouching over the kitchen table, his eyes squinted in concentration. The finger appeared dried out and old, blood long drained from its veins, now being carved into: the marks looking suspiciously akin to tribal. "Experimenting."

John, however, continued observing the scene, feeling as though his head were about to burst all over again. Debating whether or not he should just book it then and there. Who's finger was that? Oh god was he next? Guess he wasn't too far off with the psychopath proposition. He thought in fearful humour.

Sherlock sighed and dropped his hands heavily to the table; making John jump slightly. Vexed eyes made him still. "Oh, would you calm yourself?"

John's eyebrow twitched. "I am calm-"

Sherlock scoffed and returned his attention to his 'experiment'. "Clearly not, the hostility is practically palpable."

John eyed his distracted form with incredulity. "Can you blame me, I've been taken in by, and now _stranded_ with, a man cutting fingers on his kitchen table who claims it to be an experiment-"

Sherlock's head snapped up, a frown marring his features. "It's a prop. You have no reason to assume otherwise." Was that supposed to reassure him? John sighed leaning against the counter and sipped his tea with a grimace. The sight in front of him was nothing less than troubling but he wouldn't let it go to waste. He'd learned long ago not to waste luxuries, no matter how simple.

Pursing his lips in distaste at the mans literality, he voiced. "I just have some concerns." Sherlock raised a brow. "For example, who does that finger belong to?"

Sherlock sniffed at his retarded attempt at getting him to admit, and resumed cutting. "Classified."

John inhaled, looked to the side, and muffled a scream. Before Sherlock could ask if he was hurt, a series of bangs assaulted the front door. After a few moments passed in contemplation of whether John should answer the door, three more knocks sounded, making him sympathize for their knuckles.

"Who would be out in this flurry?" John asked a bit stumped at the idea of someone driving, much less _walking_ , through such weather. Any of Sherlock's neighbors were completely out of the question, noting the fact that Sherlock harassed them constantly. Regardless of whether they were confronting him or keeping to themselves. Heaven knows how he'd kept his residency.

All in all, living in the very same _building_ with Sherlock was insufferable.

Sherlock frowned at the door as the incessant knocking continued. "I have a few people in mind." He muttered through grit teeth. 

"Maybe _they'll leave_ if _we_ _pray_!" ...A few moments passed before the infernal sounds resumed.

Sherlock threw up his hands and huffed indignantly. John raised his eyebrows and glanced at the door, then back at him: unimpressed. "Are you going to get that?"

Sherlock hissed a breath through his teeth and rose, clattering stray dishes on the table. "Fine. Just stop making that face." He stepped around John and briefly looked him over before reaching the door. Possibly debating growling at it. He resigned and swung it open in one calm, graceful motion. Although the look on his face intimated otherwise.

Two young women were revealed: one startled and one resolved. The startled young woman, Sarah according to her necklace, lowered her hand slowly and suddenly became transfixed by his century old wooden flooring. Sherlock blinked tiredly.

"Sunday already?" He questioned; crossing his arms and leaning against the rotting door frame. His eyes widened as it rattled and creaked. Then a crack sounded. A chunk of painted, peeling wood breaking off and landing squarely atop his head, then slowly sliding and landing on the floor with a clunk.

The rotted wood crumbled to splinters. Sherlock raised and unseeingly narrowed his icy daggers on Sarah (who's expression gradually became more fearful as the silence stretched) and hissed through grit teeth. " _Mrs. Hudson_."

Sarah cleared her throat and glanced at the resolved woman standing next to her in question. She only grunted in assent, keeping her rather unnerving stare leveled on Sherlock. Had she even blinked since arrival? Sarah cleared her throat again and straightened her back, staring up at the intimidating figure as the blatant yet muted wrath rolled off him in waves.

"H-Hello again, Mr. Holmes-"

"Sorry, I don't believe we've met. Though considering your friend- ah _sister_ \- has already informed you of myself and my _sickness._ Introduction doesn't seem necessary." He informed her sweetly, words as stiff as his black dress shoe, tapping in sharp impatience. For a man living in such run-down conditions, he dressed quite poshly.

"Moreover, I was rather busy before you _so rudely_ interrupted me. I'd deeply appreciate an oath of abandonment." He aimed his last sentence at Christie in particular, words layered thick with distaste and longing.

Sarah startled, how long had their church been haranguing this man? She hadn't joined their church, nor followed their beloved God to harass people. Regardless of their wrongdoings. She frowned. "Oh. W-Well we were- we would just like to-"

"'Invite me into the house of Christ'." He finished and regarded her impassively, rendering her silent. "I'm not particularly interested in subjecting myself to such bigoted adherents."

John frowned at him but said nothing, long before leaving the kitchen to observe the spectacle that was Sherlock. It was interesting to see. Two types of people, both so contrast. So disproportionate.  What people were willing to do to others, their effort to change one another due to their ideals. Their ideals being regarded as completely and utterly fallacious to the other. Constantly clashing, this was humanity after all, it was an everyday war. Quiet at times and loud at others. But Sherlock... someone as contrastive as him had yet to find anyone to share likeness. Let alone at all. John felt his chest spike with something familiar and gelid, he swallowed it.

Sherlock then smiled tightly, a practiced motion. "Good day!" Promptly slamming the door in response to Sarah's shocked and Christie's disgusted expressions he went to recommence his actions prior...only to be interrupted once more.

Ignoring the alarmed "Sherlock wait!" he slammed the door open and disregarded the sound of the door banging into the wall. A shower of splinters separated Sherlock from them for a moment. That was going to leave another dent. Damn it. "

What do you want? As I've said I'm rather busy." He affirmed sibilantly and attempted to sift wooden fragments from his locks.

Repositioning his arctic glower onto Christie: who appeared to be forcing the poor girl to relay her beliefs. And provoke Sherlock into exploding on her for reasons he didn't dare dwell on. John hovered a few feet behind him, hesitant of worsening the situation and unsure of what to do, he _was_ half naked. That wouldn't look too well in the presence of two conformed and religious women who had probably never spoken to anyone less.

She stiffened, not in fear but in arrogance, and smirked at him. Sherlock curled his lip in disdain. "Look, we're just encouraging people to read the bible-" What was he? A show? They've done these inane restatements time and time again.

"I have actually, it was quite boring." Christie flushed in anger, for a moment looking as though she planned to hit him. John clenched his fist. Sherlock remained lax and seemingly patient as he stared her down. She then abruptly smiled, an unpleasant expression revealing crooked teeth. As if she'd solved the Da Vinci's code.

Sherlock inwardly jeered at the thought. "Surely you're aware of what happens to non believers?"

A few beats passed and the woman's face grew in triumph. Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head back, face looking terribly troubled when he took a deep steadying breath. Exhaling shakily he looked back down at her looking as though he wanted to sob, but his eyes were far too dry.

John wanted to reach out and squeeze his shoulder in concern, Sarah looked as though she wanted to as well. 

"Yeah," His voice cracked on the syllable. "a small red man repeatedly pokes and prods me with his pitchfork, sassing me into oblivion and yelling obscenities spliced with my _many_ inhibitions, all whilst I hang above a fiery pit. For all of eternity." His voice gradually became dull and wry. A sharp noise escaped Sarah, sounding suspiciously similar to humored hysteria. "Thinking 'why?' 'why didn't I heed that plastic woman's warning?'-"

Christie squawked, affronted, and covered her voluptuous chest with her hand. "Plastic?!"

Sarah heaved a breath, head tilted to the side to conceal her face, her small hand attempting to conceal any sounds. John went worryingly quiet in the background.

Sherlock smiled and folded his hands behind his back. "Yes, more specifically silicon, how about you go schedule another appointment in effort to look like even more like a sex doll than you currently do. Would be a shame if your husband committed infidelity again." His voice gone harsh and forbidding.

Silence. Christie's resolve dwindled, face contorting into one of hurt while Sarah stood stock still next to her. Hypocritical. Hypocritical. Hypocritical.

Sherlock scowled and bit out a "God bless you both." and quietly closed the door. Ignoring how Christie's downturned eyes shown with tears.

Sherlock stared at the closed door until he heard footsteps recede down creaking stairs. Taking a deep breath he scrubbed a hand through his hair. That was more troublesome than usual. She usually just condemned him to hell and told him he was the most repulsive human being she'd ever had the rancor of meeting. Whatever, he had work to do-.

He was roughly grabbed by the front of his grey dress shirt and slammed him against a nearby wall, his head coming in contact with the hollow drywall. Sherlock groaned and glared down at him in annoyance. "Oh, what is it now-" John cut him off with another slam into the wall, though it wasn't as harsh as the first. "What is _wrong_ with you?" He ground out in shallow desperation. Sherlock's eyes widened. "What are you-" John huffed cynically. "Don't you think that was a bit harsh?" His glaucous irises flicked through his incredulously, Sherlock's meeting every movement. He mustn't of found what he was looking for, given the way he altered his line of sight to focus on his clenched fists.

Then John laughed. The sound sharp and disbelieving. As if it were impossible for someone to be so insensitive. Emotionless.

"God, you machine."

Sherlock stiffened and stared ahead, his fists balled until they cackled.

John felt himself be clutched close, a cold, painfully tight grip on his forearms. He jerked his head upwards in alarm, and heard Sherlock begin speaking. Voice harsh and calm and uncomfortably close. "Oh, how could I forget?" The sentence bordered closely on a growl. " I can be harassed, discriminated, reviled, but god forbid I do anything in retaliation." His baritone gradually deepening in rage, eyes boring into his own.

 There was something there, something angry, something desperate, something human. John made to twist from his grip but Sherlock kept his grip sure. A tad nervous now, John scowled and glared up darkly.

"It's different."

Sherlock scoffed and released him, leaving him feeling warm. He leveled John with a wry stare, and questioned.

"Why? Because I'm a man?" Sherlock titlted his head, even as his posture slackened. "This isn't the 1960s, Watson. I'm not concerned with man's fragile masculinity, nor their unrealistic façades created in effort to fulfill women's standard. Stereotypes are worthless and stifling."

John said nothing as Sherlock shook his head in relent and receded to the kitchen. Shoes disturbing the wooden debris as he tiredly ambled on.

He watched him leave, feeling beginnings of guilt weigh on his conscience. John sighed and glared at the kitchen walkway Sherlock disappeared through. He hadn't meant to snap like that.

John had been raised to respect the opposite sex his entire life, men being made out as brutes, and hell, even monsters. He was rather nettled at the fact he'd been so easily influenced throughout. It wasn't too uncanny minding the brutes he dealt with on a weekly basis. But god, what was he thinking? Attacking Sherlock like that, sure what he said was horrible but that was no excuse. Sherlock was nothing like those ogres. And the woman had surely been...unpleasant.

There was also the fact that Sherlock could call the police, but he'd been pretty adamant on his denials of doing so. But then...he was quite the drama queen.

John groaned quietly to himself and kicked a piece of door. He had never excelled at apologies.

 


	7. Eye of The Needle~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What on earth are you looking for?!"
> 
> Feeling his teeth momentarily clatter from the impact, John hissed.
> 
> John emerged from the cabinet grumbling and rubbing the top of his head. Did he do that on purpose? Sherlock merely blinked at him. The prick. 
> 
> Grimacing at the pounding in his still sore head, John turned to lean against to cabinet in an awkward half-crouch half-Indian style position.
> 
> "A garbage bag. I was looking for a garbage bag. Would you happen to have a thirteen gallon?"
> 
> A small wooden clatter sounded. "Oh just take the sodding coat already." 
> 
> Surprised, John's head whipped up to see Sherlock's hunched shoulders shaking, a small, breathy snicker seeming to worm its way past his defenses. It was a happy little sound, yet no doubt a reserved one.
> 
> One that John got to hear.
> 
> And before John knew it, he was laughing too.

"You're free to leave now." John startled. The monotone sentence emitting from the slouching figure observing the rubber finger, again. There was no way it was real, but John still played along. Because why not? Sniffing at the dust tickling at his nose, John looked at him, rays of grey sunlight highlighting the dusty room. The blizzard had let up a bit, but snowfall remained resolute and John could feel cool air leaking through the window-frames.

Sherlock remained waiting, but sliced into the false appendage with a tad more force. Huh, eccentric fellow he was. "Was I not allowed to leave before?" He questioned if only to clear this dank atmosphere.

John felt his shoulders slouch when Sherlock didn't even turn to acknowledge him.

"No." Sherlock replied simply, as though he were vocally righting a crooked frame.

Blinking, John huffed an incredulous little sound and cocked his head. John approached the kitchen table to get a better a look at him. His stomach was doing that weird squirmy thing when he was crossed between feeling nervous and wanting to laugh. "What you mean 'no'?"

Pale blue briskly took in his features. "I mean, I reckoned you wouldn't fancy a half-nude stroll down the block. Especially with bruises and sore spots to accessorize, sounds painstakingly Neanderthal really. Can't imagine it's still in style."

John chuckled, a little surprised at the crack the drone made, and silently glad that there wasn't going to be a dramatic scene resembling some romantic comedy drama. One thing he didn't fancy was getting a suitcase to the face...or in this case, a baton. Right, no suitcases, didn't live here. He truly would be upset if he left without a farewell, it was the least he could do- oh god had he even said thank you?

"Well yeah, I just- look I just wanted to apologize for earlier. It was uncalled for." He admitted and felt embarrassment flare in his stomach. But Sherlock was looking at him now, so that was something.

"And to say thank you, I honestly don't know if I'd be here if it weren't for you. I'm forever in your debt." A little corny but he was feeling particularly self-loathing and maybe a little frustrated at the moment. This man had done nothing wrong. If asking for entitled privacy and being rude in retaliation for being tortured weekly was wrong, then John's casual abuse of assisting shopkeepers at Tesco's be damned. Well...double-damned.

Sherlock seemed a little shocked, more of a dulled reaction though. Like a 'courageous' teen excitedly clicking a rumored and rather disturbing video on YouTube, then remaining still for a good few minutes afterwards, suddenly afraid to cross the room to turn their lamp light on.

Thankfully, Sherlock came to. "You're... welcome, John. You're welcome." Nodding as though annoyed at his verbal stumbling, Sherlock focused on the rubber appendage- definitely rubber- again. Really realistic rubber. Damn, look at that _texture_. "And yes, slamming someone into wall for being rude is to be expected. More often than not it's usually done by said verbal abuse victim. Not spectator."

John sighed and stepped closer to further scrutinize Sherlock's handy-work, as well as the scattered paraphernalia. "Fair enough. So, what was this comment about Neanderthals not being in style?" Sherlock's lips twitched at that. "The least you could do is dress yourself properly."

John frowned at the muted mischief on Sherlock's face. Narrowing his eyes and crossing his bare arms again, John recalled something else rather distinguishing about Neanderthals.

"My head looks fine."

Cocking his head, the noirette considered for a moment. Then ultimately shook their head. "Shame, wish I could say the same for your height."

John squeezed his eyes shut and roughly scrubbed his thumb and forefinger over his eyelids, irritated. And suddenly feeling a bit overwhelmed with the situation. _Why did I leave the shire?_

"Where are the rest of my clothes?"

Sherlock, now looking pleased and leafing through resumes for god knows what, answers him. "The laundry machine."

John didn't know what it was with him and his stupidly vague answers. Not everyone caught on as quickly as his Highness. Nor could they magically recognize the buildings architecture type and decipher where said laundry machine unit was.

Sherlock scoffed as though the papers were insulting his livelihood and tossed another booklet aside, immediately reaching for another. Who the hell could he be hiring (John winced as another resume was thrown down carelessly, poor Eduardo hadn't a snowballs chance in hell.) and for what? "Speaking of which, it's probably done. Washing cycles generally take around fourty-five minutes, not seventy-two hours."

Wait. "You left my sopping wet laundry in the machine for three days? It's probably all molded by now." John almost whined, suddenly regretting ever leaving that night. He really liked that jumper...

“Oh, right. Go check with Mrs. Hudson. If there's an ounce of decency left in this building, chances are they gave it to her. Chances are slim if I might add.” Sherlock added, not sounding hesitant in the slightest.

"Mrs. Hudson. She's your landlady, yeah?" John questioned conversationally as he laced up his ratty converse sneakers. Jeez, even  _his shoes_  had a few blood stains. He must have been a sight to behold.

"Obviously, do catch up, John." Replied the passionately distracted beanpole. John would ask what was making him so antsy later...or not. Seeing as most distracted and barking mad geniuses probably weren't particularly interested in dull, Neanderthal drug dealers. Swallowing down a rather bitter emotion, John wryly responded. "Is she even in?"

"Always, you can find her in the café next door, though you'll have to go around front to reach the entrance." Finally glancing up, Sherlock looked him up and down, eyes lingering on his fading bruises.

John had long removed his bandages, as they were no longer needed and soiled. Still ashamed that he had been so easily triggered, he was a doctor after all.

 John met his eyes for a moment and stared. Accidently starting a staring contest of sorts. Which mostly composed of John trying to label at least one shade of Sherlock's unusual eyes. Was that _violet?_ In the end, John honest to god managed to defeat him. Which was strange considering Sherlock had taken to staring into the very depths of his soul since he'd first opened his eyes, finding himself in this...situation.

Or Sherlock just didn't have time for his shenanigans and wanted to get back to work.

Guess, the floor was work then.

"What are you still doing here, John?" Sherlock asked, sounding tired.

John rose an eyebrow and grinned at the daft bloke. "It's minus twelve degrees outside, I'll die." Huffing, Sherlock gave a little grin and waved him off, as if embarrassed. Laughable, that.

Sherlock  took a seat and tended to his resumes once more. "You can't possibly die from minute exposure to negative temperatures. And don't be so dramatic, it's only negative eight."

John sucked and bit at the inside of his cheek. Clicking his tongue, John looked down again and was met with a raised brow in response to his 'disciplining-mother's' pose. "It's indecent, I refuse."

"Then what do you propose I do?" Sherlock bit back, frowning up at him in puzzlement.

Opening his mouth, John made to answer with exactly what he could do. Coming up empty with a proper way to express his solution, he glanced at the solution hanging by the front door, hoping to get his message across.

A blink. Nothing. He promptly closed it with a soft scowl. "Excuse me." He nodded and politely pushed past Sherlock's chair, then into the kitchen. John stopped and stooped to his knees and dug through the peeling sink cabinet below the counter.

Before opening it, he couldn't help but notice the many equations and hieroglyphic scrawls covering the door. He looked up warily from inside the cabinet upon hearing a creak from above, the counter above _was_ currently occupying an array of toxic looking substances in jars. All of which he was sure were banned in at least a few advanced and knowledgeable countries in chemistry. England being one of them.

He heard paper rustle. A chair scrape the floor. And continued searching. "What are you doing?"

Jesus Christ, how many sparking plugs and rope did a guy need? John was placing a rather horrific looking hammer to the side when Sherlock questioned his jean-clad behind at a rather startling volume. "What on earth are you looking for?!"

Feeling his teeth momentarily clatter from the impact, John hissed.

John emerged grumbling and rubbing the top of his head. Did he do that on purpose? Sherlock merely blinked at him. The prick. Grimacing at the pounding in his still sore head, John turned to lean against to cabinet in an awkward half-crouch half-Indian style position.

"A garbage bag. I was looking for a garbage bag. Would you happen to have a thirteen gallon?"

A small wooden clatter resounded. "Oh just take the sodding coat already." Surprised, John's head whipped up to see Sherlock's hunched shoulders shaking, a small, breathy snicker managing to worm its way past his defenses. It was a happy little sound, yet no doubt a reserved one.

One that John got to hear.

And before John knew it, he was laughing too.

 

 

 

                                                  ---------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

 

 

"AHHHH!"

"HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!"

John blinked his wide-eyed gaze through the Plexiglas, feeling as though his gaze could rival that of an owls. Momentarily wondering if he looked anything like that disturbing proptosis patient he saw in Afghanistan, he hesitantly strolled closer to the café. So this is what Sherlock had warned him about.

"I'M SORRY!"

John winced into the coats collar as the poor soul inside dodged a can of something or other. Only for the bulletproof glass to repel it, effectively propelling the heavy grocery item back into the poor sods spine. Dear god, how old was the bloke? He should have suffered a slipped disk by now.

"LIAR!"

He whipped his head from left to right, watching as the shallow sea of onlookers simply stared ahead and ignored the manic raisins going at it. Drama isn't for everyone, just keep it on television he supposed.

Swallowing, John went forward to take shelter from the heavy snowfall under the brown and yellow striped awning. John settled for knocking on the glass. Going inside would be simply life-threatening. A soldier he may be. John had commonsense and entering a war zone and Mrs. Hudson's café were currently two very different things.

 _Especially when injured_. He quickly rationalized. Plus, the guy seemed like he deserved it, and John's always been one for righteousness. And if he were being honest with himself, he quite liked the cozy feeling of being engulfed by familiar soft warmth. Not familiar in the sense of a mothers embrace, no. Something about harsh whipping winds not making it past his impenetrable woolen shield.

But it made for a bitter metaphor. A bitter independence. It was him against the world. Sure, he'd always be there for those in need, for those who asked. And with that he was content. Although recently, he'd begun to question his giving nature and its consumers, sure he continued his services... Perhaps for the selfish hope that it may be returned someday.

He knocked again for good measure.

His socially-acceptable and concerned-citizens call remained unanswered.

So outside he stayed.

                                        ------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

Hearing loud banging erupt from next-door, Sherlock wondered if sending John downstairs wasn't the best of ideas. After revealing Mrs. Hudson's boyfriends infidelity to her four days ago no less, he was supposed to arrive today, yes? Ah, John would manage. He was an army doctor after all, he could dodge a few cans.

Sherlock had also heard his screams long enough to be able to decipher whether anything was wrong. Should he need to intervene. He lightly shuddered at the memory that decided to rear its ugly little head. John's broken and battered form bleeding onto the concrete. His expression so resigned yet... For some reason, the memory pained him more now than it had before. How dull.

His phone began to vibrate, Sherlock quietly cursing before the device could shatter onto the floor. It was Lestrade. Sherlock bounced on his heels and up to the frosted window. Allowing it to ring four more times before answering. The man had been giving him horrifically simple cases for months now. Honestly, he'd nearly tossed the stack of resumes back in the audacious imbeciles mug. Did they really expect to have the most observant man in the world leaf through resumes for fun?

Now he only did it because going harpooning for boars made Mrs. Hudson nervous. ...plus, he could delve into their pasts and find any ties to an earlier enemy. Maybe one was trying contact him.

The internet had been his eleventh attempt to quell his "stir-crazy" as Mrs. Hudson had so kindly put it, but it had only satisfied him for so long, he'd even resorted to a cat video ('a'. Not plural. One.). If only to see what all the fuss was about. It wasn't really his cup of tea, though he now understood how one could become obsessed with such garbage.

Flipping open the phone before Gavin gave up and tried again, a nervous tic if he'd ever seen one, he greeted the detective enthusiastically.

"Greetings, Gavin! How's the mayor?"

A growl crackled over the line. _"...Deader than a mackerel. I'm guessing you've already seen the news?"_

"Yes, the poor hag on the telly filled us in."

A sigh. " _She's not a hag- what do you mean by 'us'?"_

"Had a friend join me for tea this afternoon." Sherlock replied smoothly.

Gavin paused, probably contemplating what the hell a friend of Sherlock's would even look like. The image not being anything worthy of respect no doubt.

 _"...Whatever. As long as this 'friend' of yours doesn't deal drugs then there's not a problem."_   _Ding! Ding! The winner gets the needle!_ Sherlock almost winced aloud at the irony. But it was better to have Gavin know now than have him find out later. 

Don't want him conjuring up any more... correct assumptions. How new.

"Yes, father Gavin. So when shall I arrive to do everything your forensics team can't for you?" Sherlock asked snidely, nettled at Lestrade's imploring nature.

 _"Now. I'll see you on 26th Teetotaler street. Hotel Mourir Est Un Art is just across the road."_ Sherlock lowered the phone to his side, eyes suddenly taking interest in the flurry's erratic pattern and not bothering to hang up. Waste of effort. The phone crackled by his side, something sounding like: _"And ith's egg!"_

He ignored it. The hotels name rang a bell, it rang a few. Except they were all located in the deepest and most embarrassingly disused crevices of his mind. Seeming as though he could turn down a corridor and see its tail just whip around the corner before it scurried down another hall. Leaving nothing but alarm in its wake. He just couldn't _catch it._

"Interesting name for a Hotel. Don't you think so Billy?" He asked, groaning and tugging at his inky curls. Skulls don't talk. _So what?_

He _really_ hated deja vu.

 

 

 

                                ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

"And stay out!"

 

His head snapped to the right to see some poor old soul, looking honest-to-god terrified, scrambling out the door and tripping over a few conveniently-placed wooden crates.

The glass door slammed behind him, causing the bell to ring shrilly. As though to alert tigers in zoo's of their feeding time. He couldn't think of a better metaphor at the moment, some chubby blond brat was already recording him on a cellphone. The blokes face went rosy and he attempted to act casual. Awkwardly speed-walking and half jogging away. It seemed like more of a defeated limp though. So casual.

Clutching the coat tighter around himself, to steel himself for what, he didn't know, and entered the lioness's den. For some reason, the thought arose an old tune, it ultimately bled into an entire song by the time he reached the door. He concentrated on the tune, wanting to chuckle as the words weaved themselves together from memory. Memory he hadn't even known he possessed.

Risin' up, back on the street~

Did my time, took my chances~

Went the distance, now I'm back on my fEeet~

Just a man, and his will, to surviveee~!

So many times, it happens too fast~

You trade your passion for gloOory~

Don't lose your grip! On the dreams of the pAaast You must fight just to keep them alive~!

Convinced time around Sherlock has caused him to officially lose his fucking mind-or maturity-hell probably both- he walked up to her. Side stepping a...Christmas tree. It was November.

John overstepped a few more suspicious items until he reached the shopkeeper, she'd been mumbling something rather obscene about dogs and men before he sharply cleared his throat. Effectively grabbing her attention before his face burned off.

Upon catching sight of him her vaguely troubling expression subsided. Her face positively lighting up. Much like that smaller Christmas tree had been  but a moment ago. John frowned at her warily, where had the small, raging ball of condensed demonic vengeance gone?

"You must be John! How are you fairing, dear? I'm sorry I haven't been up to check on you both lately." She set aside her broom in favor of her new guest.

"Yeah, that would be me." He smiled, already feeling easy around her. She seemed like a strong woman, wise yet sweet. A true caretaker, a giver. She reminded him of a mother he never had.

"And it's quite alright, I have been unconscious for the most part. Would have been a shame to not make your acquaintance conscious."

Mrs. Hudson hummed and picked up a dented can of soup. "I'm afraid it's already too late for that, dear." She beckoned him over to the counter, tapping a leather barstool that had seen better days.

Declining the offer, he went to assist her with cleaning the hellhole.

"Ah?" He peeked at her through a bookshelf. "What do you mean by that?" His frown was visible from between the hedgehog plushy and glass otter figurine placed beside each side of his head.

She couldn't contain her frail, bubbly laughter as she responded. "Well, I can assure you that when I caught Sherlock dragging your bloody corpse up the stairs he had quite some explaining to do."

She brushed a few stray hairs from her eyes. "I got a pretty good look at you then, yes." Then she shook her head a little, looking a little upset as though remembering something troubling. "Poor thing looked scared to death when he dragged you in."

Her delicate features formed a frown. "Even though you wouldn't have been the first one. So I knew something was wrong right off the bat."

Her stern eyes met his in an instant, pinning him in place. He abruptly felt like moving would be a crime, this stare he had been acquainted with many a time. He'd seen that steely determination in so many soldiers. So many. John abruptly felt a new respect swell within him for Mrs. Hudson. As well as a fear. For he'd never been on the receiving end of such a gaze.

"You have no idea how long it took him to convince me to let you stay here and not call an ambulance. To not have the authorities take care of you instead." Knowing where this was going, John slouched his shoulders, beginning to feel a little silly in the extravagant coat.

"I know what you do, boy. And you're not letting Sherlock get one whiff of it. You hear me?" John felt the hair on his arms raise at the chilling dip the woman's voice had taken. He nodded, then shook his head, he would never ever contribute to turning Sherlock into one of those animals. And he told her so.

Smiling warmly she nodded back. "Good, very good."

John didn't find her words patronizing whatsoever, to be truthful, he was glad that Sherlock had someone else looking out for him.

...hold on a shitting second. "What do you mean I wouldn't be the first one?"

She made a distressed sound in her throat. "He brings in all sorts of icky things! Heads, hands, eyes in jars, toes and scalps! It’s terrible! On one memorable occasion he even went as far as to bring home half a body. Dropped the bloody legs right down the stairs he did!"

John’s hand grasped the counter and he stared at fine marble, contents of his stomach beginning to feel unsettled. Was he..was he rooming with a serial killer and his deranged landlady? How had this happened? He thought the finger was fake! Sherlock had to be kidding! Even though Sherlock looked as though he couldn’t laugh if he were held at gunpoint…well, until earlier.

"Where-ah- where did he get these-these things?" He asked before his mind got the better of him and he just sprinted out the door and caught pneumonia. For a soldier this was a rather comical reaction, he had to admit.

He just needed to clarify that he could politely return the coat and retrieve his belongings without being slaughtered. "The morgue…oh dear! Take a seat! You look like you’ve seen a ghost!" She steered his pale form to a stool before he collapsed.

John coughed and gasped out. “ _The morgue._ Right of course, where else? Do you by any chance know why he hoards dead- _actual dead_ -peoples body parts in his flat?”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head in fond exasperation. Blissfully unaware of John's minor meltdown. He's seen dead people, just not...used for such a purpose.

“For his experiments. He does the craziest things all for some case or something or other.”

Oh, John was well aware of the experiments just not that they were _real_ -

"Case? Did you just say case?"

"Hm? Don’t you know? He works for Scotland yard.”

"WHAT?!"

"WHAT?! What is it?! You almost gave me a conniption!"

"No, nothing, sorry for the disturbance, by any chance have you seen a brown and black jumper? Around ye long and ye wide?" He gestured the size sharply, his voice tense and leg bouncing nervously.

If john's mind were a race horse he'd be trampling through the spectator aisles. Oh god what would happen if Mike got in trouble? He'd never forgive himself. And if the police managed to track his dealings back to his customers, his system and contacts would all be irrevocably fucked, maybe even more so than America was at the moment.

Okay, overstatement. But you get the idea.


	8. Care for a game of chance?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slowly, raw unimpressment etched itself into John’s rapidly aging features. “You can’t be serious.”
> 
> “I am the most serious.”
> 
> John barked a laugh at that, frown still firmly in place. “You need a doctor.”
> 
> “Yes, that’s exactly what I need. Care to join me?”
> 
> “Sherlo- you sod. I can’t just show up to a crime scene-with police officers- are you mental? I’m a drug-dealer!”
> 
> “Volume, John.” Sherlock muttered, eyeing the ceiling where a rather excitable humanitarian lived just above. “But yes, you are a delinquent. A delinquent without a name, nor a face.” Sherlock suggested imploringly.

That bastard. That fucking bastard. He couldn't believe he'd fallen for such a ridiculous act. Hospitality provided by the one and only Dracula himself no less. Sherlock's every word was coated with thick disinterest, so thick John would choke on it if those eyes weren't so keen. His every movement arrogant and sure, yet annoyingly graceful all the same. All he'd had to do was bat his lashes, rattle off some extraordinary deduction, and give him an intimation of something more.

That he genuinely saved him, and intended to let him recover. John had fallen for the spectacle like a besotted sack of potatoes. Making mistakes such as these are one of the many reasons he couldn't count his acquaintances past his right hand. Including a nonexistent love-life.

He was almost glad, once you clawed through irrationally noxious hazes of anger and betrayal. Glad he wouldn't leave empty. As empty.

Moreover, John couldn't afford mistakes. Not anymore. His small network was suffering. More so than usual to clarify. All thanks to this... _man_. He's commonly referred to as 'Spider', you can hear the title being whispered behind trembling hands in equally filthy alleys. It never reaches farther, somehow. But he hadn't dwelled on how such a well known name had been kept unknown to authorities.

Despite them being bitten damn near constantly. He feared to. So, keeping his dealings quiet and cautious, John has managed to evade the spider's reach just barely. Other gangs and networks fading from his peripherals left and right. Always there, taunting. Promising. A true pest if John ever knew one. Although, for whatever the spider had planned, he didn't know which carefully conducted turnout he feared more.

Becoming a pawn or a page six headline. Going willingly would never be an option, and neither was participating in such nauseating territory. Should the opportunity ever present itself, he'd be caught dead before joining the damned organization, if you could even call it that. Spider's acts were nothing short of monstrous. And he expected nothing less from his own institution. His boys would remain loyal, as he had done so for them many a time...well. 

They could turn tail and book it in the end. Couldn't say he'd be too surprised.

Whatever, the last thing he needed were the cops on his rear. Outrunning Scottland Yard was never an easy task. Scottland Yard’s always reveled in hunting down gangs down like rats. But only ones that got too fat, too sloppy.

He needed to go. Now.

Keeping his pace brisk, John made a sharp turn out of the café and towards the apartment’s front door.

After he got his wallet back. Couldn’t have his name and face on a wanted poster. Nope, that would just be bad for business.

“John.”

The door was opened before his hand ever reached the knob. Damn it. Keep it neutral.

The fuck sighed. “I need my coat.”

Not breaking the stare, John removed the coat carefully. As to not irritate his wounds. And handed the thing over, it was probably worth more than his childhood.

“And where are you off to?” This appeared to have peaked Sherlock’s interest. Despite his tired features and weary posture, you could visibly see his eyes sharpen at the question. He wondered if this was what his patients had ever felt like under his laser eyed-care.

“…work.”

“With police officers?” He couldn’t help the bite in his words.

Sherlock blinked slowly, annoyance heavy on his features as he turned to look inside the café. “Mrs. Hudson.”

John huffed and rolled his eyes, shirtless and shivering. Icy winds heeded no man he supposed. John couldn’t care less at the moment. “Y-yes _Mrs. Hudson._ Why d-didn’t you tell me you were a co-cop?”

"I am not a cop." Sherlock sneered at the word. “I'm a consultant. And if you must know why, it's because you would have ran away, ultimately freezing to death in your mad-dash to escape the _big, bad authority mutts and their lap dog."_

John didn't really appreciate his mocking tone,  because come on. Could you really blame someone in his position for being a bit alarmed by unknowingly rooming with someone affiliated with government dogs?

"When in reality, I’d rather have the walls painted with my innards, and have my severed head  act as a paintbrush. Than to be referred to as anything remotely related to their _co-worker_.“

Well then. He must have been staring too long, since the offended peacock averted its narrow gaze to him. A silent, indignant squawk daring him to say something wrong. 

John wanted to growl, but all that came out were angry, British vowels. Good enough.  “…That-That’s really passionate and everything but I can’t afford to take any chances.” He looked mournfully down at his ripped jumper held between his crossed arms when another shiver racked his frame.

“What chances!” The angered tone caused John to look up. His neck cricked, ow. Sherlock crossed his arms, looking genuinely irked. “ _Chances_ dictate I’ll never see you again. _Chances_ dictate you’ll live the rest of your days meeting clients in lots while you quiver in muted fear. All for some ridiculous sentiment you feel for your cowardly _co-workers_. It’s not like it’s reciprocated. And if it were, would it really save you from bleeding out after getting shot by some trigger-happy fellow?”

The horde of people passing just behind them seemed to have dissipated into white noise, but Jesus, they must have been a sight. His bewildered eyes stared up at two half-shut, blank ones. John dug his fingers into his bare forearms, his short nails biting into his numbing flesh. And lowered his gaze to the woolen, navy scarf parallel to him.

Resolutely ignoring the two women muttering behind him about male escorts and love triangles.

Clinical and to the point as always. That was Sherlock for you. The realization has always been hovering there. In their disregard, in their slacking, in their damn near constant ‘hey John I can’t make it tonight. Can you fill in?’s.

 It wasn’t all that shocking to hear, but it still hurt to nonetheless. They weren’t his loyal military boys anymore. At his beck and call, determined and willing. Bright-eyed and young, laughing aside their friends and reveling in their essential camaraderie, hiding away in Afghanistan’s barracks. Invalidation and age have changed them all for the worse. You see, John and his impeccable instincts had already known what would conjure up from the acknowledgement. Or maybe he didn’t. Therein lied the problem.

“But of course, you already know this. So what’s stopping you?” It was a simple question, just genuinely curious and slightly breathless from an earlier rant. It took no more than a second for his answer to present itself. It was immediate.

A chance.

But John, being the strong little soldier he was, refused to be reduced to some philosophical, sniveling mess because some preening prick decided to state the obvious. He was John Watson, Captain John H. Watson. Like hell he’d act like anything less.

And so, John reared his head back up and glared. Hands tightly fisted at his sides and spine taut. He wouldn’t even shiver when a gelid gust that could rival the north pole whipped by, unfeeling of the snow biting his skin raw. Not when his core was rushing with something so rare and searing. John smiled. Enjoying the vaguely unsettled look on his frienemy’s face.

Oh, it was a joy to be Captain again, he must’ve gotten lost in the cross-fire.

“That’s none of your concern, dear.” John refines, sugary sweet and condescending, causing the figure in front of him to stiffen. “ And while you’re entertaining commentary and reciting the obvious have been fun…” He shrugged and met Sherlock’s eyes blankly. “I’m afraid I’ll have to miss your next opening night.” And a resigned lip purse to finish. Flawless.

After a moment, John relaxed at Sherlock’s silence, thankful he hadn’t been hit or mentally scarred yet. And went to move around him. It was a little strange. He’d managed to silence one of the most brilliant men he’d ever met with three sentences. John couldn’t help the way his chest swelled a little with pride. Making his half-nude frame stand just a bit straighter. John brushed Sherlock’s shoulder as he passed, the step momentarily making John’s shoulders level with the apparent-statue’s, and added,

“Tickets are expensive you see?”

John chuckled and started up the stairs. Trying in vain to ease his trembling and rapidly beating heart. He was old damn it. “I’ll be gone by the time you get back, so if you plan on doing anything I’d suggest you make it snappy.” John didn’t know why he said it, he already knew Sherlock wouldn’t. And he fully expected to never see this man again. Surely the two situations couldn’t be correlated. 

What he wasn’t expecting, was a clammy grip on his wrist. Much less the panicked _‘wait’_ that accompanied it. Or the way his entire fucking body loosened at the unpleasantly sweaty contact.

John sighed at his besotted-sack-of-potato-ness and turned. One foot stepping back onto the previous step in order to peer down at Sherlock. “Yes?”

Sherlock immediately relinquished his grip on John’s wrist once his halted his assent. But seemed inappropriately baffled at the question. Considering it was him that stopped John, John had the right to ask such a thing. He stopped John in the first place so he must have had a reason. A good, sound, logical reason for delaying John’s inevitable disappearance from his life forever-

“Do you want to see the mayor?” How eloquent.

John now looked as though he were wondering what tortures he had endured as a child. “He’s dead…”

Sherlock now looked as though he were wondering how many brain cells had shriveled up and died from his time spent under Afghanistan’s glaring sun.

This look was becoming quite common, they realized.

Slowly, raw unimpressment etched itself into John’s rapidly aging features. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am the most serious.”

John barked a laugh at that, frown still firmly in place. “You need a doctor.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I need. Care to join me?”

“Sherlo- _you_ _sod_. I can’t just show up to a crime scene- _with police officers_ \- are you mental? I’m a drug-dealer!”

“Volume, John.” Sherlock muttered, eyeing the ceiling where a few, rather excitable humanitarians lived just above. “But yes, you are a delinquent. A delinquent without a name, nor a face.” Sherlock suggested imploringly.

John seemed to consider for a moment. Before abruptly shaking himself out of it. “What if I see one of my clients? They could say something.”

Now Sherlock was just frustrated, but he could still feel himself thrumming with excitement. All he needed to do was convince John that he was being outstandingly moronic and cowardly! Sherlock excelled at this. Piece of cake.

“Somehow I highly doubt well-known officers would reveal you as being their drug-dealer. Much less do drugs. Monthly evaluations?”

“They could’ve witnessed a peddling.”

“Somehow I also highly doubt you’d be so reckless. There have been no records regarding drug-dealings in your area. It’s admittedly impressive. You’ve managed to evade the map completely.”

Cocking his head, considering, John crossed arms. “Yeah, we had a few other shameless gangs playing devil’s advocate by keeping their crimes clear as day. It did good to take the attention off.”

“Yet you’re still here and dwindling.”

John’s eyebrow twitched, and he leant against the sturdy, mahogany railing. Appearing to try and further tower over Sherlock. Sherlock noticed the act but refrained commenting. Lest he get punched in the face again, no matter how silly it looked.

“What do you propose I do then? Eh?” Hissed John, sliding the shredded remains of his once-beloved jacked over his undershirt-clad torso. Having slipped the clean but lightly stained thing back on upon reentering. “Put all my boys at risk because you want me to go play with you?”

Sherlock just glared right back, only accentuating it with a disbelieving scoff. A true drama queen if John ever met one. “I’m sure your forty-year old _boys_ would greatly appreciate being supervised like toddlers. And sorry to say this isn’t just child’s- _play_ , this is highly classified, if only to prevent any more unseemly happenstance. Any miscalculation could prove appreciably consequential. Especially _this particular assignment_.”

Sure, in the short span he’d spent with Sherlock, he could tell how seriously he took his job- consultancy. “Then why do you need _me_? I’m sure there are plenty exceptional doctors capable of performing a simple autopsy.”

“Yes, that’s why I need you.”

John’s teeth appeared to be gritting. “That doesn’t explain too much on your part, yeah.”

“They don’t possess your military experience.”

“Why the hell would they need that?”

“Let me rephrase. They aren’t schooled in artillery, they don’t know what a gun’s bullet does before it hits, only after. You, on the other hand, would know very well, now wouldn’t you?”

“I was a doctor.”

“And a soldier. You never leave your home without a gun in you back-pocket for god’s sake.”

Scowling and damning Sherlock’s flawless but maddening deduction skills would get him nowhere. This he knew all too well. But he’d already made up his mind. He was right after all.

“So you want me to accompany you so I can guess the trajectory of the bullet by looking through the hole in our poor mayor’s head?”

Now smiling and looking pleased, Sherlock made to don the coat hanging by the door. “Precisely. Clever one aren’t you? Only took you fourteen minutes.”

John nodded his head and squinted down in thought. “It is a rare opportunity.”

Sherlock sighed, already knowing how this was going to end. And slid his other arm through his coat’s sleeve. “Quite.”

“Once in a lifetime.”

“Yes, there’s a first for everything is there not?”

“Except dying. Heart surgery and all.”

Sherlock peered over his coat collar to see John standing by the first step and no longer the fifth. Then, holding the door open like the gentleman he was, Sherlock beckoned him through. “Shall we go?”

“Yeah.” Lightly bouncing on his left leg, John looks up and ceases his steeling grip on the railing. “Let’s.”


	9. My Ballistic Coefficient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's eyes were bright and astonished, and maybe a little guilty, as he looked at John. A small smile slowly curling his lip. Then a coy grin. "I think I'll keep you."
> 
> John, feeling light and proud, laughed at the teasing tone-not even alarmed that an authority figure had just implied he'd considered to employing him (best not to think about it)- and handed over the notepad illustrating the track line. 
> 
> "As if you'd need me. You've got Sherlock." John lightly knocked his shoulder against Sherlock's still form beside him.
> 
> John aimed a content grin up, but it slowly slacked at what he saw there. Sherlock's translucent gaze squinted at him almost adoringly. Eyes smiling more than his pursed mouth, as though he didn't want to show too much.
> 
>  It took his breath away for a moment.

"You're late." The dejected looking man uttered, dark rings under his half-shut eyes. He sounded lightly surprised beneath the initial frustration. "We've only got five hours."

Fair enough, not a lot of people wanted to pass their mayor's corpse on the way to their neighborhood Tesco's. At least the street had been blocked off. Sherlock sniffed, the cool November air already biting at his nose, and pointed an accusatory thumb at John. "Blame him."

Greg eyed 'him' with interest, his arms crossed and holding a walkie-talkie between them as he silently judged.

Greg narrowed his eyes on John, his voice taking on an accusatory lilt. "And who might 'him' be?" John shifted in place under the scrutiny, clearly feeling out of place already. Opening his mouth to answer before-

"Don't you have a wife at home, Gavin?" Sherlock cut in, serving to make the detective-pest across from him twitch. He hadn't spent twenty minutes convincing the criminal to accompany him to a crime scene, only for Greg to awaken some labor-on-his-part-muted insecurity and make John leave.

"It's Greg." Was all 'Greg' grounded out before John piped up and introduced himself. Frowning at Sherlock sideways as he stepped forward, his cheeks taking on a pink tint. Which was strange. Sherlock had only reminded Greg that he had a wife to get home to. That he should hurry and let them through. Their marriage was suffering after all.

"John, Captain John H. Watson. Army Doctor. Nice to meet you." He paused and glanced at Sherlock, before finally relenting at the nervous lip purse John aimed his way. Taking the offered hand and shaking it stiffly.

"Inspector Greg Lestrade, Lestrade will suffice." Gavin released the hand and turned to Sherlock, suddenly looking a bit miffed. Completely disregarding a relieved John. "You can't just bring random people to crime scenes, much less _this one_." Oh boy, here we go. Greg scrubbed his face with his hand and his wrist, his other hand gripping the communication device tightly. " Of all the times you befriend someone, you just _have_ to bring them to this particular case."

Greg then blew out a breath, seeming even more aged than he had but a moment ago. "If I ask him to leave will you still investigate?"

"Absolutely not. I require an extra opinion." Sherlock silenced the detective's protest with an eye-roll and "An opinion conjured from actual artillery experience. Let us through, Grain."

" _It's Greg, damn it._ "

" _Greg_?" Sherlock grimaced at the syllable. " _That's_ what you're calling yourself?" A deeply unimpressed scoff. " How bland. How's your autobiography "Pushing up Daisies" coming along? Any of those deep, clever, morbid sexual interpretations of yours get you kissed yet?

Greg bared his teeth in a grit snarl.  "What?"

"Stereotyping. The world is such a cliché." Elaborated Sherlock.  John snorted beside him.

Exhaling sharply, irate glare still in place, Greg tapped the glass of his wrist watch, making rapid little clicks. " _Tick tock, Sherlock_. Five hours, I'd suggest you _get to it._ "

 

 

 

\---

 

 

 

Sherlock lifted the neon-yellow police-tape, the color hurt his peripherals. Didn't want anyone running into it though. Morons. Allowing John to dunk underneath it as well, and ~~purposefully~~ accidently letting it smack Greg in the head upon releasing it. Yeah, he saw that. John muttered an apology to him before catching up with Sherlock's long strides.

They refrained from putting up a white tent over the scene. Must have been a pain for Lestrade to convince them not to cover Charles. He seemed to know Sherlock quite well to be able to forsee such a detail. Maybe even similar in his investigating skills. Instead of just allowing people close to Charles to stifle their progress for reasons relating to dignity. Easily allowing them a decent view of the surrounding area. Buildings. Buildings in which their assassin had not long before hid just beyond. Everywhere. Joyous.

Sherlock took a tiny microscope out of his coat pocket, grabbing John's hand in his own and turning it over. Pushing the tiny microscope into his palm before darting towards the corpse. It was still seated inside the carriage. John blinked down at his hand.

"Get over here, Watson!" A stern shout called, John looked up to see the tail-end of a trench coat disappear behind ceremonial cart's open door. He felt a little light on the title. Steadily going higher. John hadn't been called formally since his army days, it sent a shiver of nostalgia down his spine. John found he liked it. He liked it a lot.

Flipping open the complicated little microscope as he jogged over. Lestrade followed suit. Two other detectives as John would assume were standing nearby, one thin, pale male wearing sky-blue shrubs not unlike his own. The other a dark-skinned, lithe female dressed smartly in her pea coat and three inch heels. Both looking irritated at Sherlock's existence.

"Got your fix yet, genius?" The male hovering by Sherlock's shoulder sniped.

Sherlock didn't spare the man a glance. Nor a word. And stepped away, closer to the slouched corpse, his finger curled beneath his chin in thought.

John hurried his pace and came to a stand beside the tall figure, slightly blocking Sherlock from the male's reach. The man backed away a bit and narrowed his eyes at John. 

Heedless of the peripheral assault, John peered inside the faux-ancient, Chinese carriage. And there his mayor lay. A clean hole dribbled a neat line of now-dried and crusted blood down his pale forehead. John felt a pang of sympathy for the man and his family.

"Where's the bullet?" John heard Greg quietly startle at the question.

 Sherlock smirked at his question and glanced down, nodding, then back into the carriage. "No idea. Take a look?"

 The male from before stepped forward. "Who are you?" The question had somehow been voiced like an insult.

"Colleague." It was Sherlock who answered, still and meditative on the project before him. 

A disbelieving grimace now contorted the woman's expression as she looked at Lestrade. "You can't let him bring in a random to investigate a corpse. Much less the mayor's!"

Lestrade sighed at her, looking a little abashed. "Just leave it, Sally."

Sally didn't. "You can't just let him force you like this. It's ridiculous! For all we know this guy could be his drug dealer!"

John froze up the second the indignant sentence left the woman's mouth. Keeping his attention strictly on the bullet hole before him. Despite the fear and slight, sickening shame, John had to admit. He hadn't felt this alive in years, and had to fight the smile worming its way onto his features. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug.

"As I'll have you know, Donovan." That had grabbed Sherlock's attention, as he pinned her underneath the icy glare pointed over his shoulder. "Watson happens to be a doctor, an experienced one at that. And has had his skills brutally tested on the battle field. Time and time again. I value his opinion greatly for this particular task. "

Turning his attention from Sally's darkening features, he quipped rhetorically. "Contemplate why, why don't you?"

Sherlock looked down at John and nodded to the shrub-clad male. "Bullet, Anderson? And I take it you've kept the mayors head in its exact position since its unfortunate leister?"

Anderson scoffed at him and tossed over a plastic sandwich bag. "Show some respect would you? It's the mayor for christ's sake."

 Sherlock caught the bag in his left, not once peering his way, and handed it to John. "Says the man who's spent _twenty minutes_ digging into his brains with a pair of beauty tweezers, subsequent to his ceremonial speech."

John took the bag from his hands, now turning the bagged bullet in his latex-gloved palms. He eyed the growing tensity between Anderson and Sherlock carefully.

"Do you recognize the bullet?"

John looked down at the question. Cautiously smoothing the crinkly plastic over the engravings by the bottom circlet of the long, brass bullet. Yeah, he did. He remembered it vividly. How could he forget digging its twin out of his comrade's upper right thigh with his sandy fingers soaked in sticky red?

The others were watching him expectantly, some annoyed, some patient. "Watson?"

John calmed at the patient gaze. Settling into a set stance, he looked up from the bagged bullet pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "Twenty two K-Hornet brass. Reaches a range of two hundred yards. Has a rather low ballistic coefficient, so it'd be surprising to see it used any farther than a hundred and eighty yards for an elected head's assassination."

John met Lestrade's gaze sternly. "This guy knows what he's doing, he wouldn't risk a miss."

There was a surprised silence. Sherlock laughed a little under his breath, sounding impressed and turned to Lestrade. His posture screamed 'I don't make friends but when I do *insert excited gesturing*'. Lestrade and the others were still eyeing John with odd expressions. "So we've got our range of one eighty, let's do the maths shall we?"

 

 

 

\---

 

 

 

"Doing the maths" had mostly consisted of John hovering over Charles body. His hands being the only thing holding his weight up as he leaned them on the either side of Charles's head. Only leaning back and onto the back of the seat parallel to the mayor's to scribble furiously in his notepad. Some stupid lotto pencil  Anderson threw over before leaving with Sally and Lestrade kept giving him splinters. He probably did it on purpose. John didn't know what his problem was and he didn't like him either.

 Sherlock's keen gaze hadn't left them once.  John was cradling the corpse's head in his hands, already having determined the bullets starting point, and was peering into the mayor's wound. His face was uncomfortably close to the clammy, cool face of Abramson's, his lips nauseatingly parallel to his as he measured the distance between the entrance and exit wounds with measuring tape.

When he found himself briefly wondering if this was similar to a necrophilia porno. And immediately blushed scarlet, his eye twitching from the long conditioned morality crisis his triggered mind bombarded him with accordingly. And shock, because come on. Did those even exist? John played it off by gruffly asking Sherlock if he wanted to help him do his own job. All in response to the panic Sherlock's inquisitive brow elicited. Sherlock just shook his head and leant against the open carriage door, all lax observation, and told him he was. Sherlock might have been able to tell, he wasn't sure, but it was an uncomfortable thought. The lengths of what the man could see. It was intimidating.

"The hotel then?" Lestrade looked pleased through his exhaustion.

Sherlock hummed, seemingly relaxed. "More specifically the roof, the shed on the farthest right."

John nodded beside Sherlock, feeling proud and explained the math behind the projectile trauma. "The entrance wound is located on the back of the skull, 3.9 inches above the occipital protuberance and 0.7 inches to the right of the midline. The bullet exited by the right temple, 4.3 inches in front of, and below the entrance wound and 2.2 inches from the midline. Thus, the trajectory line intersects the western face of Hotel Mourir Est Un Art beside the Dal-Tex Building's right side. 33.5 feet north of the southern face and 124.6 feet above the roofline."

Greg's eyes were bright and astonished, and maybe a little guilty, as he looked at John. A small smile slowly curling his lip. Then a coy grin. "I think I'll keep you."

John, feeling light and proud, laughed at the teasing tone-not even alarmed that an authority figure had just implied he'd considered employing him (best not to think about it)- and handed over the notepad illustrating the track line. "As if you'd need me. You've got Sherlock." John lightly knocked his shoulder against Sherlock's still form beside him.

John aimed a content grin up, but it slowly slacked at what he saw there. Sherlock's translucent gaze squinted at him almost adoringly. Eyes smiling more than his pursed mouth, as though he didn't want to show too much. It took his breath away for a moment.

As if catching himself, Sherlock squeezes his closed and shakes his head diminutively-all in the span of a second, and redirects his attention to Lestrade. "Still a consultant, mind you. I could leave you all to rot whenever." Sherlock chastised with a small faux grin. Then nothing. "When's the vacation?"

"Now." Lestrade affirmed, no dilly-dally. "I'll meet John, you and the team on the roof later, I've still got some panic to quell. The tabloids are going mad."

John felt his chest freeze up a bit. Alarmed that all he'd had to do was conduct some simple math to be welcomed in so easily. Apparent colleague or not. Greg must have trusted Sherlock more than he let on, or he was a shit inspector. It made him fear for the institution's security for a moment. Until his rationality kicked on and told him this was a terrible, horrible, very not good thing for a criminal to involve himself in. What had he gotten himself into?

Like he'd sensed his discomfort, Lestrade turned to him. Looking far more accommodating than the first time around. "You wouldn't mind coming along?" The inspector glanced at Sherlock, then looking at him in silent plead. What the- "I would really appreciate your company, Sherlock was right, your skills are most helpful." Greg's eyes grew in size.

John twitched. Were they fucking kidding him? They were adults. Not children pleading for the last cookie. John was not the last cookie. He did not deal cookies, he dealt drugs. A little indignant at the situation: a fully grown man, an inspector, an officer being forced to allow an unknown man to totter around classified crime scenes and be made aware of confidential fact. Just because the brilliant druggie next to him forced him to. Wordlessly!

The panic still a steady hum in the back of his mind, John felt himself bristle. _Puppy eyes._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commentary gets faster updates. ;)


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